


Invictus

by Chthonia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, POV First Person, POV Hermione Granger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2003-11-22
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:50:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 143,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5748706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chthonia/pseuds/Chthonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucius abducts Hermione.<br/>Slytherin versus Gryffindor - Pureblood versus Muggleborn - the old order versus the new.<br/>Two opposites, one room, no way out.  No holds barred.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pride

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this at FictionAlley, starting in 2003. The start is set roughly half-way through Chapter 21 of OotP, and the story is AU from there. It crawled from the shadows of my Lucius PoV one-shot [Open Book](http://archiveofourown.org/works/884748). You needn't read that first, but some aspects of Invictus may be clearer if you do.
> 
> A couple of warnings:
> 
> Firstly, **herein is physical, psychological and sexual violence** , a rather warped subtext, Lucius being really quite unpleasant and Hermione going to some dark places. I don't think it's gratuitous - it's their opposing worldviews that interest me most. But the fic is not for everyone; if you need trigger warnings, there are likely to be triggers here. If you want to read on but there are particular things you want to avoid, drop me an email on chthonicdancer@hotmail.com.
> 
> Secondly, this is a WIP. It has been a WIP for a very long time. I know where the story is going and have a plan of the remaining chapters. I love this fic, I love the characters and I love the readers who have kept faith over the years. I want to finish. But I've had a lot of ups and downs in life and health over the last ten years, and although (as of July 2016) I am getting back into writing, I'm not going to make update promises I can't keep. I write slowly so please don't read this thinking I'm going to be updating every week!
> 
> Finally, huge kudos and heartfelt thanks to [Hijja](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hijja), friend and beta-reader extraordinaire, who encouraged me to let this dark slice of my soul loose on the world and has done so much to help me sharpen the edges.

# ~ Invictus ~

 

I land in darkness.

The book falls next to me with a thud.

W- what happened?  Where am I?

I can’t _see_.

 _Don’t panic, Hermione._ Don’t _panic!_

I grip my wand. The smooth wood in my hand is reassuring, but I can feel my heart thumping.

Should I cast _Lumos_? What if someone’s watching?

I can’t hear anything except for my own breathing. I try to breathe more quietly, but it’s still loud enough to drown out any other sound.

_If there are any other sounds._

Deep breath. Hands on the ground. Okay.

I’m crouching on a rough stone floor, I can feel the cracks between the slabs running off at odd angles. I can’t see anything, I can’t hear anything. Can’t smell anything, either, except maybe a little dust. It feels as if I’m in an enclosed space - the air is completely still. Not stale, but not fresh, either.

_An enclosed space._

Oh God. Am I trapped here? How am I going to get back?

 _Breathe. Think it through. What happened?_  


The book.

I was in one of the dustier corners of the library, researching Professor Snape’s essay on resisting Dark potions, checking to see if there was anything that we didn’t have in the Room of Requirement. And then I saw that book, lying on a table. I thought one of the teachers must have left it there…

Of course I know enough to be wary of wizard books, especially that kind of book, but you don’t spend as much time as I do in the library without learning how to detect the traps. I hadn’t found anything odd about this one, and I had my wand ready with the countercharms... but I hadn’t been ready for _this_.

A Portkey - it’s so obvious, especially after what happened to Harry last summer. Stupid, stupid me!  We’ve all been so careful about touching strange objects.

But this was a book.  In the _library_.  No one would suspect a book in the library, whatever the subject matter.

Which makes it the obvious thing to have used, doesn’t it?  Stupid, stupid me.

I should never have touched it.  But I thought that it might help me understand how those kind of potions worked, and Dark magical theory is hardly the sort of thing I could ask Umbridge about, is it?

Too late for that now. _Think, Hermione._

Maybe… maybe this is some foul trap of Umbridge’s? I could kick myself - the evil toad’s been trying to catch me out since the beginning of term, just because I know more about her subject than she does.  Since when was it such a crime to _study_?

So… where am I?  Would she just leave me here? After what she did to Harry, I wouldn’t put anything past her.

I shiver.  What _is_ this place?  It's so dark...

Part of me doesn’t want to know. But I _have_ to know.

I have to risk the spell.  I don’t want to advertise my presence here - wherever ‘here’ is - but I can’t stay kneeling on this floor forever. And I can’t _stand_ the feeling of darkness pressing in on me-

“ _Lumos_.”

Whispered as quietly as I can, but it’s still too loud in this absolute silence.

I’m in a room, about four metres by five metres.  Stone walls, stone floor, even a stone ceiling tiled with irregular slabs like some bizarre crazy paving.  Against the opposite wall, a desk.  In the corner beside me, a bed, hung with green velvet curtains. No windows. One door.

I rush over and try every opening charm I know, but it stays closed, of course.

 _Think._ _There has to be a way out!_

I turn back to the book.

That Cup brought Harry back again.  Will this book do the same for me?  Or is there something in it that could tell me how to return?

If there is, it’s not obvious.  There’s just pages and pages of closely copied text, pretty dry stuff by the look of it. _On Separating the Sixth and Seventh Vibrational Levels: Anomalies and Aberrations._ I’ve no idea what that means - did I really think I could work out magical resistance strategies using this stuff?

I flip back to the beginning.  _On the Use of the Revenge Response to Drive Second-Derivative Hagalaz Vectors._   This is more convoluted than advanced Arithmancy, and some of the later chapters even seem to be in Russian. If I have to rely on this to get me out of here, it’s going to take me a long, long time.

There must be a way out!  I slam the tome to the floor in frustration.

And find I am not alone.

“You really ought to treat that book with more respect. It is an antique, after all.”

 _Oh God. I know that voice!_   

I whirl round, but he’s ready for me. __

_“Expelliarmus.”_

He speaks it as a peremptory command - curt, controlled, with none of the wild shouted chaos of school duels.  But it throws me back against the wall as my wand is ripped from my grasp. He watches with a twisted smile as I scramble to my feet.

Malfoy’s father.  I should have guessed. Stupid, _stupid_ me.

He twirls my wand casually between his fingers.  I try to ignore the sick fear that’s gripping me.

_Breathe, Hermione._

“It’s a real pleasure to see you again, Miss Granger,” he says in a tone that chills my blood.  “I’m so glad you could drop in.”

I find my voice. I try to keep it level.

“What do you want?”

“Hmm.”  His smile broadens and becomes even more twisted.  “How about we start with what _you_ want?”

What? What kind of sick game is he playing?

_Say something.  Anything.  Don’t just freeze up like you did last time!_

I summon up all my determination.  He has _no right_ to do this.  “I want to go back to Hogwarts.  Now.”

He tilts his head to the left slightly, as if he’s actually thinking about it.

“I think not.  Not after I went to so much trouble to bring you here.”

His words shatter any hope that this is a random trap. As if I’d really believed that.

He picks up the book and inspects it carefully. “You know, you’re very lucky you didn’t damage this,” he says.  “It belonged to my grandfather.”

 _Keep talking to him,_ insists a voice at the back of my head.  That’s what you’re supposed to do when cornered, isn’t it?

But what is there to say?

He closes the book and looks over at me. “But I’m sure he would have been very amused to see it back in Hogwarts’ library, after he had so much trouble with the Ministry about the funding of the Dark Arts section.” There’s a mocking glint in his eye. “You could get into a lot of trouble for reading books like this, Miss Granger.  It’s a good thing no one else could see what you were looking at.”

He flips it over, opens the back cover and lifts out a brown hair.  “You really should be more careful about leaving these lying around. They can be used for far less... innocent purposes than Revealing Charms.”

If only I had checked for that sort of spell!  But that part of the library is always deserted at that time of day; there was no way I could have known that the book was only visible to me.

And he’s right: Lavender is always complaining that I shed hair worse than Crookshanks, so it wouldn’t have been too difficult for someone to obtain one if they’d really wanted to. Someone like Malfoy - the younger Malfoy, that is - for example. Not that it matters much right at the moment.

He’s watching me, clearly relishing my dawning understanding of his plot.

Suddenly something snaps inside.  I have done _nothing_ to deserve this.

“Why can’t you just leave me alone!”

He shrugs.  “Your choice, Miss Granger.  You took the bait.  And why, I wonder, was one of Albus Dumbledore’s favourite students tempted by a book on Dark Magic?”

He knows full well why I wanted to look at the stupid thing.  If someone hadn’t told him what I was researching, he wouldn’t have known which book to use, would he?

“So,” he continues, “the esteemed Hermione Granger has an interest in the Dark Arts?”

The mocking smile vanishes. “Well, _Mudblood_ , you’ve certainly come to the right place!”

And at that moment I know that the masks Death Eaters wear at night are _nothing_ compared to those they wear during the day. Lucius Malfoy’s usual condescension may be vile, but it pales before the naked force of his hatred.

I feel like a rabbit caught in the lights of a runaway train.  And he knows it.

“Which brings us rather neatly back to your original question, I think.”  He strides across the room, places the book on the desk, and turns back to face me.

“So you want to know what I want?” His words drip with malice. “You offend me. For the last four years, every time I’ve tried to act to protect the magical community from you stupid, overbreeding Muggles, _you_ have been held up as a shining example of why _I_ am misguided.  Every governor’s meeting, every Ministry function... Oh yes, Dumbledore made sure all the Muggle-lovers knew about you. You’re a godsend to them, but you’ve been a complete thorn in my side!”

His voice drops. “So now we’re going to find out what our little Mudblood prodigy is really made of.  You want to know about the Dark Arts? I’ll be only too happy to show you.”

I close my eyes and lean back against the wall.  This isn’t really happening.  That book must have one of those curses on it that pulls you into your worst nightmare and then twists it into something ten times more hideous.  It’s lunchtime soon.  Someone will come to find me in the library, and get me out of this.

“Do me the courtesy of paying attention when I’m speaking to you!”  He’s standing three feet in front of me, his face contorted with hate.  I don’t want to hear any more.  I really don’t want to hear any more.

But I have to listen.  I can’t afford to miss anything that might give me a chance of getting out of this.  I force myself to meet his eyes and immediately wish I hadn’t - my sheer terror must be written all over my face.

“Not so sure of yourself now, are you?” he sneers.

The only thing I’m sure about is that I’m not going to cower in front of him.  I return his glare.  I wish I didn’t feel as if I was about to be sick.

“You see,” he says softly, “the trouble with you is that you’re completely ignorant of what holds this society together, and yet you still think you can walk in and pass judgement.  Your little house-elf crusade being a case in point.”

House-elves?  This is about house-elves?  Well he can’t tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about there.  I am not going to stand here like a quivering wreck!

“And I suppose you think that running a society on slave labour is something to be proud of?”

His eyes flash. “Can’t you keep your mouth shut for one minute, you insolent little bitch?”

He stares down at me contemptuously.  “Pride, Mudblood, is something of which you have no conception. Pride is what makes our society strong, and it is founded on everyone knowing their place.  I know mine, the house-elves know theirs, but you, unfortunately, do not know yours.”

He pauses.

“And I really do think that it’s time you were taught.”

He watches that sink in.

Right about now would be a really good time to wake up.

“You know,” he says, mockingly conversational, “I was intending to let Draco have that pleasure, but I so enjoyed our last little chat that I couldn’t resist taking the opportunity to meet you again.  And I do want to make sure the task is carried out... thoroughly.”

He looks straight into my eyes, daring me to make a response.

_You’re trying to scare me.  And you’re succeeding.  That’s what you wanted to see, isn’t it?_

He smiles with vicious satisfaction.

“So.  Let’s start off with a little lesson on your station in life.”

He holds up my wand.

_Eleven inches. Flexible. Good for Charms and Transfiguration..._

“That you were ever allowed to touch this, Mudblood, is a travesty.”  He swishes it experimentally, and gives a mock sigh.  “Such a waste of a good wand...”

_Professor Lupin said I was the cleverest witch of my age he’d ever met._

He flexes it.  A slender, pale piece of wood, held between two black-gloved hands.

I wait for the snap.

 _I_ am _a witch.  No one can take that away._

“On the other hand,” he says thoughtfully, running a finger along its length, “I think I might be able to find a use for this after all.”

He wants me to ask. I will not give him that satisfaction.

He puts it in his pocket.  _My_ wand.

Abruptly he turns, walks back across the room, and leans against the desk.  He sweeps his gaze over me from head to foot, and there’s a cold analytical quality to it that I don’t like at all.  There must be a way out of here!  I scan the walls, the ceiling... if there was anywhere to run to, any window I could try to get through... but there’s nothing but that one door and I know that won’t help me.  I’m trapped, trapped in this small stone room with a sadistic Dark wizard who can’t accept that his world is changing and wants to take it out on me.

Somewhere out there the real Hermione must be slumped oblivious over her library book.  _Wake up!  Please..._

“I do not approve of this importation of Muggle fashion,” he says, eyeing my plain Clarks shoes. “If you’re going to pretend to be a witch, you could at least dress like one. I wonder how far you’ve taken your futile efforts to fit in?”

I _really_ don’t like the way he’s looking at me.

“Perhaps we should have a look.  Would you care to show me?”

I stare at him.

“Do I have to spell it out? Take off your robe, Mudblood.”

Heat rises to my face as rage battles with shame.

_No.  No way._

“Well go on. I haven’t got all day.”

“No.”  It’s half refusal, half flat denial.  He’s trying to drag me down a path that I will not follow.  Why does he have to do _this_?

“No?”  His eyes narrow, but he’s smiling a horrible hungry smile.  “But why ever not?”

_Stop it. Stop._

“You don’t think I’m about to _molest_ you?”  A harsh laugh.  “I assure you, Mudblood, that I have no desire to touch you in any way whatsoever.  So get on with it!”

“No.”  It’s the only thing I can cling to.

He smiles at me.  Pure condescension. He knows and I know precisely where the imbalance of power lies.

“But I hardly think you’re in a position to say ‘no’.”

He raises his wand. For a split second I know exactly what he is going to do.

_No!_

_“Imperio.”_

And I smile and relax... as my thoughts float away...  
...and I welcome that bliss... that just lets me drift... and wraps me in warmth...  
there’s a - slightly repelled? - voice in my head... that says I’m to place... my robe on the floor... and why not? I’m so warm...  
And I’ve a nagging feeling that no, this is illusion. This is _wrong._  
...though that can’t be right... because this feels so good...  
I really don’t want to do this  
..but why would I choose... to think this is bad... I know all is well… so I stretch and I smile... and

Reality crashes in.  I am standing in my underwear with a puddle of clothes at my feet.  And he is standing there haughtily swathed in his black robes and cloak and gloves, grinning maliciously and... inspecting me.

_No._

I have never felt so exposed in my life.

And _he_ was _in my mind…_

I shudder.  I close my eyes.

“There, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

I cannot respond.

I cannot respond.

“But it rather looks as if I was right, doesn’t it?  What ugly undergarments you Muggles like to wear. They’re going to have to go, I’m afraid.”

He wants me to... no.  No, I can’t.  Can’t even _think_ it.

“Oh come on - I’ve given you a nice head start, after all.  Pleasurable as it is to watch you blush, I do have other things to be getting on with.”

I open my eyes.

I can’t do it.  Not won’t.  Can’t.  I’m frozen in those twin beams of pale-eyed hate and there is no way I can make myself move to further expose myself.

“ _Now_ , Mudblood.”  His voice like a knife against my throat.

I _can’t._ End of the road.

If I tell him ‘no’ he’ll think I’m just refusing.  Maybe I even would do it if I could.  But I can’t. I can’t. I have to stall. Say something.

“W-why?

“Why?” He snorts incredulously.  “Were you this irritating to your Hogwarts teachers?”

No, not _were_.  Hermione is still at Hogwarts.  She has a Potions class after lunch that she’d thought was going to be the low point of the day.  She’s in the library researching Curses and she’s found a book that will teach her everything she needs to know about how Dark wizards make use of the paralysis of fear.  Ron will come to look for her soon and they’ll be teasing her about it for the rest of the week.

_“Adhaeremuro!”_

His spell hurls me up against the wall and pins me there.  He walks across the room towards me.  Now I do want to move, but this time it’s not just fear that’s holding me here... He’s standing mere inches away and I can’t even attempt to cover myself.  Tears spring to my eyes, I can’t help it. I try to blink them back but they roll down my cheeks.  Liquid humiliation.

“Well, well, well.”  That quiet hateful voice so close, I can feel his breath on my cheek.  “You’re certainly living up to my expectations.  Such a reaction already, and the real fun hasn’t even started yet.”

 _Ron, wake me up now!_   

“But I get the impression that you’re being a trifle... inattentive.  And that just isn’t good enough, little Mudblood. I really don’t like people who waste my time.”

I can’t move my head.  I can’t avoid those calm eyes that show so clearly that he knows exactly how to pull me apart piece by piece.  And will revel in the dark joy of doing it.

He murmurs something I can’t catch, and holds his wand over my left arm.

_Oh my god_

A juddering spasm arcs from my fingers up towards my shoulder.  Electric shock, batteries not included.

I’m shaking, but I still can’t move.

“Hmm.”  His dispassionate gaze doesn’t waver.

He passes his wand to his other hand, never breaking contact with my eyes. I _won’t_ give him the satisfaction of seeing me react. I bite my lip, preparing to hide everything I can.

He touches his wand to my leg.

At first, nothing.  Then a penetrating line of heat spreads down to my foot and up to my face with laser focus and I bite my lip harder in determination that I will _not_ cry out. All I can see in his eyes is a calm curiosity which is too detached even to be called clinical yet seems to bore into the depths of my mind as the burning gets worse and I _will not_ cry out but it feels as if I am being sliced through and I hear myself moan and

It stops.  I wrench my gaze from his - except that I can’t.  So I close my eyes.  I want to be sick.

He speaks with that same strange calm.

“Open your eyes.”

I don’t know why, but I do.

He smiles at me in a way that I can’t define.  Conspiratorial.  Familiar.  I shudder.

_No._

“Now that’s most intriguing, little one.  I think you and I are going to have some very interesting times together.”

 _And_ I _think you deserve to burn in hell._

He raises his eyebrows.  “You didn’t like that?  Ah, Mudblood, you do disappoint me.  But you’re right.  I shouldn’t let you distract me like this.”

_Bastard._

He steps back abruptly.

“So, where were we?” The cold sneer has returned. “Ah yes, there was that little problem with your concentration. Are you always this inattentive in class?”

I’m concentrating.  Concentrating very hard on reading what’s coming.  Not that it’ll make one bit of difference.

“I have to say that it’s not what I was expecting from Hogwarts’ star pupil.  But as you appear to have trouble staying focused on reality, let me show you something that will help.”

He stands looking at me, his eyes alight with unholy anticipation.  Now I do want to run, and I don’t care if there’s nowhere to run to.  I try to tear myself away from the wall. But I still can’t move.  He smirks as I struggle in vain.

“No, I think we’ll let you stay where you are. I don’t want to waste time chasing you round the room, and this technique is a little safer if you keep still.”

I freeze.  _Safer?_

“Why so alarmed?  This is what you came for, after all.”  He raises his wand, and grins.

“Consider this your first lesson in the Dark Arts.”

I scream as a knife plunges into my wrist.

The pain is beyond words.  Everything radiates from that overwhelming point of agony, piercing through me so that it’s all I know, all I could ever know.  He, with his wand and his terrible gaze, he is... outside this. I am dissolved in the pain.  Pain... is.

It stops.

My breathing comes in shuddering gasps.  I couldn’t endure that again...

My wrist is numb.  I don’t want to look at what he’s done. I can’t move my head to see.

Words float through the haze of my mind, words from a book I read when we had to research Cruciatus last year...

_Words cannot describe pain.  Pain exists only in the realm of sensation.  
Memory cannot hold onto pain.  Pain exists only in the present.  
Imagination cannot conceive of pain.  Pain exists only beyond the limits of imagining._

_Pain is its own dimension. It is accessible only through Pain._

I never truly understood it then.  I do now.

I look at him.  He is beyond comprehension.  How could anybody _do_ that?

“I do know what it feels like, you know.”  There’s no hint of mockery now, just a calm, matter-of-fact imparting of information.  “You can’t learn to use it properly if you’ve never experienced how it feels.”

Through my numb horror I feel a ripple of surprise. Is that how he learned to be so cold?  But he couldn’t possibly remember.  _I_ can’t remember.  The only thought I can hold is that I never want to feel anything like that again.

“Strangely,” he continues, “that one isn’t classed as Unforgivable. Even though \- when used appropriately - it can be so much more effective than those.  But then I have it on good authority that the Ministry finds it rather useful as well.”

No. They wouldn’t.  I know Sirius said the Ministry used Unforgivables before, but they stopped that, didn’t they?  They wouldn’t be so opposed to teaching us even defensive jinxes if they used something like _that_ themselves.  Would they?

“You don’t believe me?  Well, if you want to persist in seeing everything through that ridiculous Gryffindor nobility, have it your way.  But real life isn’t that black and white, Mudblood.  You have a lot to learn.”

He flicks his wand and I slide to the ground.  I stare at my wrist.  It’s unmarked, with no sign of that piercing agony.  Just the tingling of returning sensation.  I stare up at him.

He raises an eyebrow.  “No lasting traces, you see.  You don’t believe the Aurors mightn’t find that rather... convenient?”

I draw my arms around my knees, and stare at the floor.

_Logic, Hermione._

Yes, in _theory_ anyone could use this and not be detected.  And I’ve seen enough of wizard ‘justice’ to believe that complaints wouldn’t be treated too seriously, especially if the complainant were alleged to be a Dark Wizard.  But in _practice_ he would be as likely to make that accusation whether it were true or false.  And I know who I’d choose to trust.

“You’re not drifting away _again_ , are you?” His voice cuts sharply through my train of thought.  I keep my eyes on the floor.  I don’t want to look at him.  I don’t want to listen to him.

“It rather looks as if your memory is as bad as your attention span, if you need another little lesson already,” he sneers.  “Or do you perhaps _want_ another?”  He draws out his words. “Did you _enjoy_ that, little Mudblood?”

 _Sick._   I glare at him.

“No?  Oh well.  So let’s finish what we started, shall we?”

I’d almost forgotten.  I wish I _had_ forgotten.  I wish he had forgotten.

No such luck.

“You’re not still going to be stubborn, are you?”  He crouches down in front of me.  I draw my knees in towards my chest. “Because that would leave me with two choices, you see.  Either I could give you another little - incentive - to complete your assignment, or I could use Imperius. And I really don’t like using Imperius on your sort.  It’s bad enough being in the same room as you \- sharing your mind is something I’d rather avoid.”

 _Like I_ asked _to be in this room with you?_

He stands up and aims his wand at me.  “It’s your choice.  You can get up now, or you can let me show you another little spell. But you _will_ do as I say.  How easy you make it for yourself is up to you.”

It may be impossible to truly recall pain, but I remember enough to know that I _cannot_ choose to go through that again.  I force myself to stand.

I hate myself for doing it.  I hate him for taking such obvious enjoyment from watching me blush as I fight my instinct to curl up in a defensive ball.

He nods. “Finally, we have a little obedience.  That’s much better, Mudblood.  But do continue.”

_Don’t think about it._

Slowly, I reach behind me to unhook my bra _but really I’m walking down the corridor from the library, away from a book I never even noticed._  Is he really only making me do this because I bought my underwear from Marks and Spencers and not Hogsmeade? _There’s a Hogsmeade trip next weekend, everyone was talking about it this morning._ Or does he just want to humiliate me?  Because it’s sodding well working.  _And I go into the Great Hall and Ron and Harry wave at me and_ a tear runs down my cheek as I drop the bra on the floor, and I reach down _and I’m sitting down for lunch and the food smells delicious and across the Hall I see Malfoy sneering at something_ and through the blur of my tears his ghastly father is standing in front of me with exactly the same expression and... I cannot escape this.

He’s looking at me as if I’m something the cat dragged in.

“Turn around.”

I turn around.  Move right foot, feel the roughness of the stone floor, move left foot...

“The hairslide too.”

I remove it and drop it on the floor.  It lands with a metallic clatter.

My hair falls across my face, and I feel it covering my neck.  Even that infinitesimal reduction in exposure is a relief.

“You can turn back again now.”

I _hate_ following his instructions like an automaton.  But if I think about it I’ll freeze again and God knows what he’ll do to me then.  I just have to get through one moment at a time.  Keep focused on the present - the past is another world. And the future is unthinkable.

“You’ve missed something.”  He points to my neck.  My hand closes reflexively around the amulet.  A gift from Harry after I told him about my Basilisk nightmares.

“You’re not going to start being disobedient again, are you?” He tuts. “And you were doing so well, too.”

I can’t make my fingers uncurl.  It’s not as if I ever believed it could protect me from anything - especially not now - but it’s my last link to my friends, to my real life.

Which is exactly why he wants to take it.

“Let me see that.” He points his wand at me menacingly. I let go.

_I’m sorry, Harry._

He walks towards me, hooks his wand under the chain, and lifts up the pendant.

“Hmm.  A pretty trinket, but it hasn’t been particularly effective, has it?”

I say nothing.  He reaches out and takes it between his fingers.

“So I really can’t see why you’d want to keep it.”  With a sudden wrench he pulls it away.  The breaking chain stings my neck.  Tears sting my eyes.

I stare at the silver clasp of his cloak, inches away.  I don’t want to look at that sneering face.

“Now that was a little more trouble than it should have been,” he says, “but I’ll overlook that for now.  Go stand over there.”

He points to the empty corner of the room, opposite the bed.  I am only too glad to get away from him.  I suddenly realise I’m shivering, and now it’s from cold as much as fear.  I wrap my arms around my chest.

He gives me a disgusted look.

“Did I say you could cover yourself?”

Oh, for God’s sake! Can’t he give it a rest?

“Isn’t this enough for you?”  The words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself. __

His eyes darken.  “Evidently not.”

He lifts his wand.

_No. I really didn’t mean to say that._

I wince as that line of fire flares up my body again.  He twists his hand slightly, and the pain intensifies relentlessly. I bite down on my lip.  Is he waiting for me to cry out, or will he make it worse if I do?

“Isn’t that _enough_ for you?” he sneers.

Suddenly it is moving _through_ me, a burning thread pulling against an unbearable friction and the pain is _too much_ and I’m staggering against the wall and sobbing out for him to stop.

He watches me coldly for a further half minute before he does.

I try to stay upright. _Deep breath, Hermione.  Don’t provoke him._

“Let me make one thing clear, Mudblood.  I don’t care how much they let you get away with at Hogwarts; _I_ do not tolerate such insubordination.  Should you wish to indulge in rebelliousness here, you will pay for it.  Do you understand?”

I nod, numbly.

“So can I expect a little more co-operation in future?”

I nod again.  Betraying myself.  A Gryffindor shouldn’t give in like this.  But those heroic traditions never prepared me for _this_ monster.

“I didn’t hear that.”

I open my mouth to speak, but I can’t.  Why is it so much harder to _voice_ my capitulation?

He points his wand at me.  “Answer me when you’re spoken to, Mudblood.  Are you going to persist in this childish waywardness?”

What would all those teachers who believed in me think of this acquiescence?  _I’m sorry._

“No.” I’m burning with shame. As I should be.

“So, are you going to do as I say?”

Somehow, I drag the word out.

“Yes.”

 _And one day I’ll make you pay for it._ I promise myself that much.

“Good.  Now keep your arms down, and shut up.”

He looks me up and down, very... thoroughly. And I’m _letting_ him examine me as if I were an animal at market.  I can’t bear the feeling of keeping myself open like this.  It’s all I can do not to curl up on the floor.

And he’s smirking at my furious blushes. Daring me to resist his scrutiny.

Just keep focused, one moment at a time... Suddenly I remember Sirius, talking about Azkaban. _“...the only reason I never lost my mind is that I knew I was innocent,”_ he said. _“That wasn’t a happy thought, so the Dementors couldn’t suck it out of me...”_

I’ve faced Dementors, and they’re hideous.  But at least they only suck in your emotions. Not like _this_ black-robed creature that takes such pleasure in tormenting me, drinking in my responses and radiating them back as hate.

I will not let him suck out my soul.

So focus.  One less-than-happy thought: _I hate you._

I hate that hideous superior smile.  I hate that too-pale skin and hair, as if he’s spent his whole life down a dark hole.

I hate that horrid condescending voice.

“I really don’t see what your problem is, Mudblood.  This can’t be the first time you’ve put your body on display.  I thought all Muggles were obsessed with sex.”

_Don’t react, Hermione.  He wants you to react._

He chuckles.

“Oh, so I _am_ the first to view your wares in all their naked charm?  How sweet of you to save yourself for me.”

 _Shut_ up _.  I hate you I hate you I hate you._

And he grins, feeding on my shame and my hatred.

He takes one more long lingering look, and then crouches over the pile of discarded clothes.

I’m cold.  And I’ve just realised there’s no fireplace in here.

He picks out my school scarf, and my shoes. He adds the hairslide to his pile. He holds up a sock.

“Dear me,” he says.  “I didn’t realise the School’s uniform standards had slipped this much.”  The sock is blue, with a pattern of quills woven in.  A birthday gift from Dobby.

 _Dobby._ Oh no.

He’s looking at me with narrowed eyes.

“Something particular about this sock, is there?”  He touches it with his wand.

It sparks, with an acrid burning smell.  He stares at it.

“So there _is_ magic in it.  But if I’m not mistaken, this is elf-magic.”

_Don’t ask.  Don’t ask._

He laughs.  “Well, I suppose that’s apt, given your affinity for house-elves.  But I never thought I’d see the day when even a Mudblood would stoop so low as to accept clothes from an elf.”

I don’t miss his meaning, and I hate him for it.  But at least his need to insult me has distracted him from seeking details about that sock.

He smirks. “Although perhaps the only real difference between you is that where a house-elf is ashamed to be given clothes, to strip away _your_ pride I had to remove them.”

A flare of anger battles with cringing embarrassment as he sweeps his eyes over me again.  But I manage to hide the effect his words have on me.  I hope.  I don’t want to think about what he’s going to want of me next.

He smiles, and throws the sock back on the pile.

“Elf-magic,” he sneers. “Very nice if you want to keep your feet dry, but nothing there that can be used to track you, I think.  Still, it’s best not to be careless.”

He folds up my scarf and my shoes and my hairslide.  Then he stands up and points his wand down at the rest of my clothes.

_“Incendio.”_

A brief bright blue flare, and nothing is left but a pile of ash.

Dobby’s socks.  Harry’s pendant. Ron’s mother’s jumper. That letter from Mum and Dad in my  pocket.

All gone.

God, it’s cold in here.

“These, I think I’ll hang on to.”  He’s holding up the little bundle of scarf and shoes. “Or rather, I’ll let them form a little trail of false clues to your mysterious disappearance.  We wouldn’t want anyone to come looking for you here, would we?  Not that they’d have a hope of finding this place.”

No.  They’ll find me. They won’t leave me here, to this... No.

He raises an eyebrow.  “So you think they care what happens to you?  I doubt it, Mudblood. It’s your little scar-faced friend everyone’s worried about.  I’m probably the only one who appreciates you for what you really are.  You should be grateful to me for taking an interest.”

_I hate you._

“And besides, it’s only fair that I’m taking on Dumbledore’s uppity Mudblood, given that he appears to have taken in my uppity house-elf, don’t you think?”

 _No._ Please _don’t say that I’ve given Dobby away as well._

He chuckles.  “What, you think I can’t recognise my own servant’s magic?  Although I really should have guessed - no one but Dumbledore would be fool enough to humour the creature. Of course, I’m going to have to do something about that, now that I know where the little runt is hiding. I should have finished it off two years ago.”

He smirks at my dismay, and turns away to put the clothes on the desk beside that book.  Then he returns to stand in front of me.  I look at the floor. I can’t take much more of this.

“Now you, on the other hand...”

With one gloved finger he brushes the hair from my eyes.  I shudder at the touch.

_No._

He twists his hand in my hair and pulls my head back.  I can’t avoid that malicious sparkle in his horrible grey eyes.

“Oh yes,” he murmurs.  “I was certainly right to let _you_ live last summer.  I am very much looking forward to finding out what other little secrets are locked in that overactive head of yours.”

I try to flinch away.  He tightens his grip.  I can’t stop myself gasping in pain.

He smiles. “Now don’t go thinking you can _hide_ from me, little Mudblood.  I can read you better than one of your precious books... and you’ve been learning such a lot of interesting information, haven’t you?”

He pulls me closer.  I try not to look at him.

_Don’t think, Hermione.  Don’t think of anything._

“And you’re going to tell me all about it - you’re going to show me into every last corner of your mind. And I know I, at least, am going to find that process most... entertaining.”

_No._

He releases me and steps away.

“As for your body,” he says harshly, “I’ve seen as much of that as I ever want to see.”

He conjures up a plain black robe and flings it at me.  I clutch it tightly, grateful for some shelter at last from that penetrating stare.

He walks over to the desk, picks up my clothes and the book, and turns back to me.

“Oh, and do make sure you clean yourself up before I return.  I know you Muggles aren’t too fond of washing, but we’re a little more civilised here.”

 _Civilised._ I can’t believe he said that.

He taps the doorknob with his wand, and pushes open the door.  From where I’m standing I can see a large white bath and a sink.

A bathroom?

He chuckles.  “What, you were expecting a way out?  There _is_ no way out, Mudblood.  Not for you.”

He Disapparates.

The light goes out.


	2. Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would it take to break Hermione's loyalty to her friends? And would it _really_ be betrayal?

Complete blackness.

I’d forgotten how dark it is in here.

For a moment I just stand motionless, listening for the sound of breathing.  But it sounds like he really has gone.

Oh, thank God for that.

I never thought I’d be so grateful for darkness.  Darkness that conceals me as thoroughly as he made me expose myself.

I wrap my arms around my chest, as if that’s the only way to hold myself together.

_Get a grip, Hermione._

The bath.  That’s what people do to regain control, isn’t it?  And oh God there’s a reason for that. Besides, I’m shivering with cold - though it would be about typical of that... that _creature_ to provide only cold water to bathe in. I start to feel my way over to the door.

But… what if that’s another trap?

I pause with my hand on the doorjamb, shivering, my ears straining. I can’t hear anything.  Can’t smell anything.

Can’t see anything, of course.  That leaves only one thing to do…

I swallow, and reach my hand into the room.

Nothing happens. My fingers scrabble over the wall until I suddenly realise what I’m groping for.  Stupid instinct.

_Of course there’s not going to be a light switch!_

A half-hysterical laugh rises in my throat.  I cut it off.  The strangled squawk is almost more unnerving than the deathly silence.

Still nothing happens.  I can feel myself trembling.

_Well, you can’t just stand there forever._

I reach further into the room, forcing my feet to follow my hands around the wall.  Trying desperately not to think of what could be behind me, above me, beside me…

The bathtub. Cold enamel against my leg, its broad curve matching the brief glimpse he allowed me.

The taps are mounted on the wall, and I grasp one tentatively, then firmly.  It’s large, with an ornate raised pattern that I can’t quite make out.  I take a deep breath, and listen carefully – nothing.  I turn the tap.

I jump at the loud _slap_ of water against the metal bottom of the bath. And it _is_ hot; I can smell the steam even if I can’t see it.  I try the other taps – there are even a couple for bubble bath.

Weird. Wizards must really value their plumbing if they furnish even their dungeons like this.

I don’t like the thought of getting into a strange bathtub, in the dark.  But it _sounds_ normal enough, with the water splashing into the bath and gurgling away down the plughole.

Suddenly I plunge my hands into the water and feel along the smooth metal bottom of the tub… no hinges, no unexpected holes. I stand up, and then crouch down on the floor.  It’s one of those old-fashioned bathtubs with feet, like Mum is always saying she wishes would fit in our bathroom at home, only this one’s resting on what feels like… coiled iron snakes, I think.  I snort inwardly – evidently originality isn’t a strong point in old and supposedly noble wizarding families.  Not that four years of listening to their stupid insults hadn’t already taught me _that_.

Although… I have a nasty feeling that when it comes to… other things, _he_ can be more original than I want to know about.  _Pain is beyond the limits of imagining…_ I shiver.

_Don’t think about that._

So… there’s nothing underneath the tub except the tiled floor, nothing on the opposite wall except a stool and a pile of fluffy towels.  No room for my childhood nightmares here.  I hope.

If only childhood nightmares were all I had to fear.

I find the plug, run the water deep, and climb in, immersing myself in the liquid warmth as the heat spreads through me and the shivering stops. I scrub myself vigorously, but it’s not my body that feels violated.

The way he looked at me… Cleansing my skin can’t wash the filth from my mind.

There is no sound except for the movement of the water.  No light to see by, but then I don’t want to see anything.  What I can feel - my skin, my heartbeat - is mine.  Everything out there is his. His room. His desk. His bed. His walls.

I will not let him own _me_.  I am Hermione Granger and he is not going to touch that.

I haul myself out of the bath and wrap myself in a towel.  

Patterns of pink and green kaleidoscope against the dark.  If I were Lavender I’d think I was seeing visions, but I know that it’s just my brain reacting to the lack of light. Still, it _is_ rather strange for there to be no difference between having my eyes open or closed.  As if there’s nothing to see at all. But there is, I know there is. I twist the towel in my hands.

_Breathe, breathe deeply._

The darkness feels almost alive, malevolent... but it’s only the absence of light. It can’t smother me, no matter how dense it feels.

I push away memories of Professor Lupin’s lecture on Lethifolds - I don’t want to think about what might be lurking in his dungeons, but he hasn’t brought me here just for... for that.  I’m safe for the time being.

_Safe?  Hardly the best choice of words, Hermione._

I find the robe he gave me. Threw at me.  I don’t want to even touch anything he wants me to wear, but I don’t want to freeze either.  Or go naked.  I pull it on. It’s made from a soft, comfortable fabric, and it actually fits me.  How on earth did he know my size?

And - thankfully - it seems to be covering me in all the right places.  For a while there I thought he was just going to give me a pillowcase or something.  Or nothing.

I shudder - that doesn’t bear thinking about. Has he really had enough of that particular form of torment?  What was it he said? _I’ve seen as much of that as I ever want to see_.

Unless he’s just trying to lull me into a false sense of security.

Relative security.

Though… the way he said it – as if he really couldn’t imagine seeing anything more hideous than… than me.

But then why did he _look_ at me like that if he thinks I’m so horribly repulsive?

_Well, be thankful he does think that._

I stare into the darkness, frowning. Attempting to work out how _his_ mind works is an exercise that has never remotely appealed to me - but it looks as though I’ll have to try if I want any hope of getting out of here alive.

I open the door as quietly as I can, half expecting him to be standing there, waiting.  But there’s still nothing to see apart from those dancing false neon light patterns.  I try to ignore them, and concentrate on listening.  But there’s nothing to hear.  I’m still alone.

And I’m really tired.  I don’t suppose it can be much later than mid-afternoon, but the darkness is pressing in and right at this moment all I want to do is curl up and blot everything out.

I don’t trust that bed, any more than I trusted the bath, but it’s a better prospect than sleeping on the hard floor.  Anyhow, if I don’t sleep I won’t be able to think straight, and in this situation I need all the straight thinking I can muster.

The mattress is as comfortable as the robe - a bit disconcerting, really.  It would almost be easier to deal with this place if it was furnished like the prison it is.

I lie in the dark, listening to my ears ringing faintly in the absolute silence.

.

I wake in the middle of the night.

I heard a noise.  I’m sure I heard a noise.  Is there something out there?  My skin is crawling with fear.  For all I know, he could be standing there in the dark, listening to my panicked breathing.  Or maybe there’s something else down here.

_Like what?_

Start with the simplest. What did Professor Lupin say? _“Boggarts like dark, enclosed spaces...”_ Well, this would certainly qualify, and Boggarts were never my strong point, even when I had a wand at hand.  Though at the moment I wouldn’t complain if I saw Professor McGonagall appear in front of me, whatever she was saying.

But there’s nothing there.

I’m sure there’s nothing there.

When I was little I’d sometimes wake up in the dark like this.  I’d lie still, working up the nerve to switch on the light and see the room flip back into cosy normality.  But there _is_ no light here - if only I had my wand!  But I only have my ears, straining for clues, and the knowledge that he is out there, somewhere.  I just have to wait for dawn.

_Breathe, Hermione._

I don’t know how long I lie there before I remember that there’s no dawn here, either.  

I’m tense from waiting for nothing to happen.  I’ve been listening for hours \- I think \- and I _think_ I’m still alone in here.  Either way, I can’t just stay in this bed until he decides to come back.  I need the loo, to start with.

I have to force myself to step out into that blackness.  My heart is pounding, but nothing pounces.  I trail my hand along the bed as I walk to the bathroom.  One small victory over fear.

.

Okay, I have a choice: either I cower in a corner, or I can explore every inch of this room.  I need to do _something_ to stop myself from freezing in fear or going mad with boredom - and perhaps I might find something that will give me an advantage, something that will help me hang on until Professor Dumbledore finds me.

And he will find me.  Especially if ferret-boy has anything to do with this \- for the first time I’m glad of that stupid bully’s inability to keep his mouth shut.

I walk across the room, counting paces. My vision and my hearing are still betraying me with ghost signals, so everything comes down to touch.  I’d never realised before how the air feels damp within a few centimetres of a cool stone wall, or how my fingers can’t quite perceive the shape of an irregular stone slab.  Or, for that matter, quite how clearly I can smell the dust in curtain-drapes or old polish on a desk.

I’m hungry.

_Don’t think about that._

In the bathroom I find a toothbrush, and a jar of that gritty minty ointment that wizards use for toothpaste.  I brush my teeth.  It’s comfortingly familiar, as if I could open my eyes and find myself standing in the bathroom at home.

I wish.

Tears well up in my eyes – but I wipe them away.  Feeling sorry for myself isn’t going to get me anywhere.

I practice walking straight back to the bed, without feeling my way along the walls.  I almost manage it without bumping into the desk, and I feel a small rush of triumph.  Another small defeat over the darkness surrounding me.

.

I wake up slowly, dimly aware of the morning light.  I stretch drowsily, wondering vaguely where Crookshanks is.

God, what a horrible dream.  I dread to think what Trelawney would make of that one.

I open my eyes and plunge back into nightmare. I’m staring up at grey eyes, pale face, cold smile. He’s standing right by the bed, looking down at me.

Instantly awake, I roll out of his reach and crouch with my back against the wall. We stare at each other across the rumpled blankets.

He’s not wearing his cloak this time, and his robes are plainer, but the gloves are the same. As is the sneer. Had I really forgotten just how horrid that thin angular face is?

No, I’ve just avoided thinking about it. But I can’t avoid it now. And I have to make a choice – to resist, or pretend to acquiesce. If I can get him to underestimate me he might just slip up.  It’s a faint hope, but I’ve come through some tight situations before…

He raises his eyebrows.  “Aren’t you happy to see me?  I thought you’d be glad of some company after being here alone all this time.”

All what time?  It can’t be more than a day, two days, can it? I don’t even know what time of day it is.  Suddenly I _need_ to know.

I look at him warily. His expression seems more evaluative, less hate-filled, than before.  Perhaps I can risk the question.

“How long have I been here?” I ask.

His lip curls. “Didn’t you learn anything from our last little session?  You’re here to answer questions, not to ask them.”

Well, it was worth a try.  Maybe.  Though his eyes are colder now and his wand is back in his hand.

“And as for time,” he continues, “all you need concern yourself with is making sure you’re awake and attentive whenever I’m here.  Is that quite clear?”

“Yes.”  I hate giving in to his arrogance, but his time I feel no self-betrayal.  This time the response is _my_ choice, part of _my_ strategy, not something he is wringing out of me.

“So why are you still in bed?”

I push down my anger as I crawl across the mattress. He doesn’t move out of the way.  No, he just stands there smugly, watching me. I hate the way he’s ordering me about, but he’ll only take more pleasure in hurting me if I don’t do what he says.

He might do that anyway, of course, but I’m not going to give him the excuse.

I swing my feet onto the floor at the end of the bed, as far away from him as I can get.  He’s still sneering at me, but he’s still… watching me, too.  I’ve no idea what he wants. Or maybe he just wants to make me worry about it.  Him and his stupid Slytherin games - being alone in the dark was far preferable.  I look away.

He steps forward and grasps my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes.

“ _Don’t_ think that you can ignore me, Mudblood.”

I can’t suppress a shiver of fear at his tone, his proximity, his touch. He smiles.

“Well, you seem to be settling in satisfactorily. Now make the bed and come over here.”

He walks across the room, and a minute later I follow. All that time spent orienting myself in the dark seems pointless now that I can _see_ him, and the desk, and the odd crazy-paving walls. This is a completely different place in the light.

Another chair has appeared and I sit on it warily, facing him across the desk.

He watches me silently, lazily fingering his wand.  My eyes are drawn to it, inexorably. I can’t stop myself hoping that an extra split second of warning will help me when he decides to use it.

He moves his hand slowly into casting position.  I look up at his face.  He raises an eyebrow.

“Scared, Mudblood?”

I don’t reply.  I’m not stupid enough to not be scared, and he knows it.

“Tell me,” he says, wand poised, “if you’d known when you received your Hogwarts letter that you would end up here, would you still have accepted?”

I don’t know what he wants me to say to that.  Perhaps I should let him think he’s won, but that lie sticks in my throat.  I _am_ a witch, whatever he may think about it. I watch him warily as I answer.

“Yes.”

His eyes darken for a moment, and then he chuckles.

“So am I to take it that you don’t find my company so offensive after all?  I’m touched.”

I look down at the desk. Of course, he would twist that into something vile. I can’t help recalling his earlier comments, and that feeling of utter exposure.  I feel myself blush.

But that’s how he wants me to react.  And I don’t want to give him that satisfaction.  I look up.

He flicks his wand.

I flinch - but the only assault is from the sudden aroma of food. A tray has appeared on the table: a bowl of thick soup, a couple of slices of bread, and a glass of water.  Not much, but that soup smells delicious. My stomach twists with hunger.

“It’s probably not what you’re accustomed to eating for breakfast,” he comments, “but I’m not going to have my kitchen rearranged just because you insist on sleeping at odd hours of the day.”

I ignore my prickle of resentment, and focus on the food. Common sense tells me I shouldn’t touch it with a barge-pole.  Common sense also tells me that I have to eat to keep my strength up.  I sniff carefully.  There’s no telltale scent of potion, although that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

“Eat up,” he says. “I don’t want you to starve.”

“You’d rather poison me instead?”

He laughs scornfully. “You don’t really expect me to answer that, do you?  And I thought they said you were intelligent.”

And I’d have no reason to believe him anyway, if he told me the food was okay.

I take a spoonful of soup, savouring the taste.  There’s nothing wrong with it as far as I can tell, and I don’t exactly have a lot of choice if I want to eat something.  So I continue, chewing slowly.  I wish he wasn’t watching every mouthful I take so closely.

As if there’s nothing else to wish for! I _wish_ I wasn’t here at all.  I wish I’d never set eyes on him.

“Now, the interesting question,” he drawls, “is whether you would still be eating that with such obvious relish if you knew that I _had_ put something in it.”

I stop with the spoon halfway to my mouth.  There’s a malicious glint in his eyes.

_Logic, Hermione._

Whether he says he has or he hasn’t, two facts remain: I can’t trust him, and I have to eat something. And there isn’t exactly a lot of choice when it comes to food. He’s just playing mindgames. Isn’t he?

I force myself to swallow the soup.  If it turns out that there _is_ something wrong with it then I’ll have to deal with that as best I can.

He continues to watch me.  I continue to ignore him.

When I’ve finished, he flicks his wand again.  In place of the dishes is a plain, empty goblet.

It sits on the desk between us.

He brings out a flask from his pocket, holds it up, and pours out a dark green liquid in an elegant arc.

“Now, since you’ve already asked me about poisons, let’s make potions the focus of our lesson today, hmm?”

That cold hand of fear clenches round me again.  The way he’s swirling that flask makes Professor Snape look like someone’s fairy godmother.

He smiles. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me what you know about Veritaserum?”

The fear squeezes tighter. I’d rather face what he put me through last time than put the Order in danger. Knowing this had to be coming doesn’t make it any easier to face, especially as I don’t know _how_ I’m going to resist answering his questions.  But I have to, somehow.  Too much is at stake.

“I know everything I need to know about what it is and what it does,” I say coldly.  I will not take part in his sick little game.

His eyes narrow.  “You do? Very well then, let me ask you something more specific. Can you tell me what it _doesn’t_ do?”

I don’t know what he’s getting at. Veritaserum is the most powerful Truth Potion in existence.

“No?  Not quite the fount of all knowledge after all, are you?”

I suppress my irritation at the put-down.  Why does he need to pick at every little thing I don’t know?  I’ve never claimed to know _everything_ , and what I do know is down to my own hard work.

He leans towards me again.

“So let me tell you: it doesn’t allow you a choice, Mudblood.  As my old friend Severus says, three drops and you’re spilling your innermost secrets for the entire world to hear. No finesse at all – I can’t understand why so many people insist on using it.”

He gestures towards the goblet.  “So for the purposes of today’s discussion, we’re going to try something else.  Probitaserum, to be precise.”

Probitaserum? What’s he up to? It barely qualifies as a Truth Potion; we even made it in class once.  I might have a chance against that.

“Of course,” he continues, “those of limited intelligence might believe that Probitaserum is less efficacious, but they entirely miss the point.  Under Veritaserum, the answers to _unasked_ questions go completely hidden... and, as you know so well, the questions one doesn’t know to ask so often turn out to be the most revealing.”

 _As I know so well…_ I don’t want to think about what happened in the bookshop – _this_ time I have to do better than that. I watch him cautiously as he continues.

“Probitaserum may give you more freedom to choose your reply, but it makes it far more obvious when you’re hiding something.”  He grins. “Not to mention that it’s a lot more amusing to watch.”

He pushes the goblet towards me.  “So drink up, Mudblood,” he says, “and I’ll show you exactly what I’m talking about.”

I look down at the dark liquid.  I know what it does, and I’ve resisted it before, more or less.  I might be able to do that again, depending on how strong this is.  If I drink it I’m gambling that I can hide what I need to hide - and if I can’t manage it I’ll have handed him everything on a plate.  I _can’t_ do that.  But I don’t want to think about what he’ll do to me if I refuse.

He’s watching me, with a curious smile.

No. I will not willingly walk into this trap.  I meet his eyes, and lift the goblet.  Then I throw it to the floor.

He raises his eyebrows but says nothing.  The empty goblet rolls noisily away across the flagstones.  And stops.

“So, once again you indulge your rebellious streak,” he says.  “I assume you haven’t forgotten what I said about that the last time?”

No, I haven’t forgotten his threat.  But whatever he’s going to do now can’t be worse than acquiescing in betrayal.

“Don’t even imagine that I’m going to let you off with Imperius,” he says. “I’ve already told you I don’t like using it on Mudbloods, and after I had to go to such trouble to make you pay attention before, this time I’d rather you stay aware of _everything_ you do.”

He leans back and smiles.  It sends a chill down my spine, but I try to hide that.  I made my choice and I’ll face whatever he throws at me.

“You know,” he says lazily, “that twisted Gryffindor reasoning never ceases to fascinate me.”

I won’t sit and listen to him lecture me.  He’s going to do his worst anyway.

“Perhaps Slytherins are encouraged to rat on their friends,” I retort, “but I doubt anyone else would have a problem understanding loyalty.”

His eyes narrow. “A Slytherin would have been astute enough to avoid getting into your particular situation. But if she did, I would expect her to apply a little more logic to the matter of _loyalty_ than you seem able to.”

If he wants to throw insults rather than curses, I’m not going to complain.  And if I can keep him talking... I’m trying to stall the inevitable, of course, but perhaps he’ll say something that could help me.

“It’s not a question of logic, it’s a question of honour.”

He laughs. “You’re confusing honour with lack of guilt. You’ll tell me everything I want to know anyway.  Does it really matter whether or not you try to resist?”

“Of course it does!”

“Does it? On a purely practical level, all it means is that you’ll be in a worse state afterwards.  Take guilt out of the equation, and surely it’s obvious that loyalty lies in making sure you’d actually in be a fit state to be able to help your friends - or yourself \- if the opportunity arose.  Though as it won’t in your case, I admit that the point is rather academic.”

That’s a twisted argument. I won’t accept it, and I won’t accept that I’m stuck here.

“You’re assuming that there’s no hope from the start.”

“Yes, I am.  And in that I believe I have considerably more experience than you.”

I- I don’t know what to say.

His lip curls contemptuously. “Everyone prattles on about Gryffindor bravery, but none of you has the nerve to really face up to situations in which your so-called principles can’t give you a clear answer. You people have no understanding of what it takes to actually make such a decision, so you accuse those of us who do of disloyalty, while you run from guilt and call your cowardice honour.”

He stands up and leans towards me. “So now _you_ are clinging to the notion that your little display of rebellion makes you somehow less accountable for what you’re going to tell me anyway. But if you need me to hurt you so that you can live with yourself afterwards, so be it.” He smirks. “I was rather hoping you’d be in the mood for another lesson.”

He walks around the desk.

I stand to face him. I am a Gryffindor and I will not run from my fate.

“So eager to get started,” he mocks.  He glances around the room.  “Over there, I think.”  He points to the wall between the desk and the door.

I glance over my shoulder to the bare stonework, then turn back to face him. He’s as rigid and implacable as stone himself, and I feel as if I, too, have turned into a pillar of rock. I _can’t_ turn my back on him.  And I _won’t_ make it easier for him to- to…

“Perhaps you didn’t understand me, Mudblood.”  His words come out in a low, menacing hiss.  “What I meant was, _get over there._ Now.”

And there’s something about the angle of his chin, about the way his lip twitches and his eyes seem somehow _darker_ than they did before, that tells me that he will make it so much _worse_ if I don’t obey that order.  That he has the power to throw me viciously against the wall anyway, as he demonstrated so clearly before.  And I don’t want to give him an excuse to do it.  I have to keep my dignity as long as I can. I have to make it clear to him that I’m a _person._

So I walk towards the wall, straight-backed, fighting my rising dread every step of the way.  I’m about five paces away when his spell hits me, propelling me forward so that I stumble against the wall with arms outstretched and am held there unable to move.

The cool stone is rough against my right cheek.  I can’t move my head; all I can see is a short stretch of wall to the empty corner of the room.  All I can hear is the thump of my pulse, and the click of his boots on the stone.  And a metallic scrape that fills me with fear until I realise it’s just the goblet he’s picking up.  I think.

His footsteps come towards me.  I still can’t see him.  Closer... and he stops. I strain my ears for the sound of movement.  He could be right behind me, he could be several feet away. Or he could have left the room.  I wish I could tell.

But I can’t.  And I know what he wants, as he stands there - wherever - in silence.  He wants me to turn my fear in on myself. I’ve read all about how that works: how the two natural responses to fear are flight or fight, and how when neither is possible the fear is driven inwards, to break down the resistance of the mind so that defences are weakened even before they are called on.

And I know how to fight it; every word etched on my memory by my determination never again to feel that overwhelming paralysis when faced with a troll, or a Boggart, or a Death Eater and his sneering son. _Focus._ Whatever is going to happen hasn’t happened yet, and feeling sick with terror isn’t going to stop it happening.

Still no sound.  Maybe he really has gone.  Maybe he’s just going to leave me here.

Maybe Professor Snape is going to take to wearing a pink robe and handing out chocolates in class.

I almost laugh.  Too hysterical.  My mind trying to shut out everything else as well as the fear.  But humour is good.  Anger is good.  Hate is good, if I have to choose between that and fear.  I can’t stop myself being afraid, that’s too much to ask, but I can focus on my anger, my hatred of him and all he represents.  Something that lets me take back some control over my reactions. 

But I jump as something touches my neck.  I try to jerk away - but I can’t move, of course.

His wand, sliding forward until its tip touches the left side of my jaw. What’s he doing?

Trying to scare me, that’s what.  I can’t feel any signs of a spell.  Remember anger.

He moves the wand up towards my ear, slowly, holding it level and never losing contact with my neck.  I shiver. What is he _doing?_

He tilts it up and back, drawing my hair away from my cheek.  My peripheral vision is clear now, but I still can’t see him.

We stand there like that for a full minute.

I’m literally shaking with tension.  Fear.  Anger.  Hate.  My body’s reflex reaction that I can’t stop, however hard I try to keep myself motionless.

“So.”  Soft, sibilant whisper, just behind my ear.  “Are you starting to regret your foolish act of bravado?”

I wish I could turn and face him. I hate him.  _Remember that._   I will not meekly do as he demands, and I stand by that decision.

“No.”  It comes out defiantly, despite a slight waver.

A quiet laugh.

He waits a few seconds, then lets my hair fall back across my face.  He walks slowly round to face me.  His eyes are devoid of expression.

Why can I still feel his wand lying against my neck?

“Bravely said, Mudblood,” he says softly. “But that does rather seem to indicate that you _have_ forgotten your last lesson after all.”

He passes his wand above my outstretched left arm, from wrist to shoulder. That part of my arm comes free from the wall. I twist slightly to face him.

Carefully, he rolls up my sleeve, flicking his eyes up to meet mine with every turn of the fabric.  He fastidiously keeps his fingers a few centimetres away from my arm, avoiding contact. Halfway between my elbow and my shoulder he stops. He steps back.

“Let’s start with a recap, shall we?”  He trails his wand along my forearm.

For a moment, there’s nothing.  And then it feels as if a line of acid is slowly etching into my arm.  I bite my lip against the pain. It’s getting worse. The bastard was right: I _had_ forgotten.  Did I really think I could resist this?

But I have to try.  It’s only pain - I can see there’s no real injury.

 _Only pain?_   Only pain that is screaming along my nerves demanding that I _move_ , that I run to the sink or the bath and hold my arm under cold clean flowing water, but I can’t pull away from the wall.  He’s watching me shake with the effort not to scream out and I hate him and I’m not sure how much more I can take.

_Logic, Hermione._

It’s a false signal.  A direct manipulation of my nervous system.

But knowing that doesn’t stop the overwhelming _agony_...

He passes his wand over my arm, and it goes numb.  I gasp with relief.  

“I don’t suppose you’d care to reconsider your reluctance to co-operate?”

Yes. No. Anything to stop him doing that again.  But how can I just _agree_ to tell him everything?  Though, though, if I could resist the effects of that potion...

“As I was saying, the decision-making ability of Gryffindors is sadly deficient.  Perhaps I can help you to make up your mind.”

I open my mouth but I still can’t find the right words.

He shakes his head.  “Too late, Mudblood.  And besides, there’s something I wanted to show you.”

I can’t bear to look at that smug, mocking face.  I close my eyes.

“So you don’t want to watch?  Very well. _Oculos claudo._ ”

I can’t open my eyes.  I fight back my panic.  He’s right in front of me doing God knows what and I can’t even see to prepare myself.

_Breathe._

Breathe deeply.

I feel that treacherously light touch of his wand on my arm.

An identical line of burning, gouging pain, precisely parallel to the first.  But this time I can’t see the incongruity of unblemished skin set against grating agony. This is a battle entirely within myself. I bite down on my lip.

 _Illusion_.

It doesn’t _feel_ like illusion.

But it didn’t feel like illusion when I could _see_ that it was, either.

 _Breathe._ It’s not real.

Of course it’s real!  Even if there’s no lasting damage it hurts it hurts it HURTS

 _Could_ this overload permanently damage my nervous system?  Cold fear at the thought. Can I risk it?  Do I have a choice anyway?  I _won’t_ give in to him.  Not when there are consequences beyond this moment. I slam my shoulder into the wall.  The few centimetres of movement I have give me nowhere near enough pain to deflect my attention from _that_ agony.

“You can stop this any time you like,” he says quietly.  “You just have to say the word.  Such a small thing compared to this suffering you’re putting yourself through.”

I open my mouth and I scream, dredging up all that searing agony and flinging it out into the room.  Blotting out his voice.  Anything, anything to draw my attention away from the fire in my arm.

_“Silencio!”_

It cuts me off.  I’m forcing the air out but the sound and the pain are blocked inside.  I can hardly breathe.  I’m shaking.  Silently.  The screaming is loud in my mind.

“That wasn’t really what I had in mind, Mudblood.”

I can hardly hear what he’s saying.  I can’t hold this.  I can’t let it out.

“Have you had enough yet?”

Enough? ‘Enough’ makes no sense.  I just want it to _stop_.  But it’s getting worse.  I didn’t think it could get any worse.

I can’t nod, I can’t speak, I can’t even look at him.  Doesn’t he realise that? It’s just me in my own private black hole with the thing that’s burning through me.  I can’t take this.  Anything to make it stop. stop. please stop. stop. 

The litany is running through my head but I’m mouthing the word. _Stop._

“I can’t quite hear you.  Are you ready to co-operate yet?”

 _No_.  I just want it to stop.  _“Please stop...”_   My voice is back.  Though it doesn’t sound like mine. Strained past endurance.

“That’s not what I asked.” __

I _hate_ him.  I shriek out my response.  “ _Yes!_   Just make it stop!”

It does.  Though I’m still shaking and there’s a dull throb along my arm.

“So now that you’re slightly more comfortable, perhaps you’d like to answer me properly.  I’d like a more _considered_ response, before we wind this up.”

 _Don’t think about it.  Just say yes._  I know I can’t hold out.

“Still not sure?”  I can hear the mocking smile in his voice. “Shall I show you something worse?”

Worse than that?

He touches his wand to my eyelids.

I blink.  And stifle a scream.  _My arm._

There’s an ugly red gouge running along my forearm, weeping with pus.  I stare at it in horror.  About the width of a wand, and half as deep.  Not as deep as it felt, but too deep. No wonder I’m shaking so much.  It’s not only nerve damage I had to worry about.

I feel sick. Cold. What has he done?  What else will he do?

He’s just smiling his self-satisfied smile.  Utterly in control.  Inhuman.  Horrible.

“Am I to take it that you might have chosen to stop a little sooner, if I’d let you watch?”

Vile.

How could I not have given in sooner, _knowing_ that my flesh was being eaten away?

But did I really think I was going to get out of here unscathed?

_Oh God..._

“Because,” he says, “if you really dislike the idea of the potion, we _could_ do this the old-fashioned way.” He presses his wand against the reddened skin beside the wound. I bite back a cry. He smirks.  “It’s not the most reliable of methods, of course, but there are other compensations...” He presses harder.  Pain shoots up my arm.  I will not cry out.  But I want to be sick.

Why do my words stick in my throat?  He was right, earlier.  What’s the point of trying to endure something that I know I can’t take anyway?  But then why is it so hard to admit defeat?

He moves behind me and speaks, drawing the word out slowly. _“Caedo.”_

I gasp as the spell pierces my thigh.  Is that real, or illusion?  I can feel a trickle of blood running down my leg.  Could _that_ be illusion?  Does it matter?  This is crazy, especially when he could just cast Imperius and make me do what he wants anyway.  When he tires of demonstrating all the ways he can make me scream - and I _really_ don’t want to find out what he would do before getting to that stage.  Didn’t I say that I wasn’t going to give him an excuse to torment me?

_Just say it._

“No.  Don’t.”

That quiet laugh again.  “Are you sure?  But I’m still waiting for that considered response I asked for.”

But that’s just it.  If he just wanted information he _would_ have used Imperius, and Veritaserum.  It’s my considered betrayal he wants.  Betrayal of my friends and all my principles.  Betrayal of the Light.

_“Caedo.”_

I scream my defiance.  And the pain.  More blood running down my other leg. I’m dizzy from the agony lancing through my limbs; I’m not sure I could stay upright if I wasn’t held here.

“Pain or potion, Mudblood,” he murmurs. “It’s up to you.”

He touches the first cut he made on my leg.

“ _Sano._ ”

A sudden warmth, and the pain there is miraculously gone.

“You see?” he says. “Don’t delude yourself that I have any intention of letting you die before you give me what I want. We can keep this up for as long as you like.”

He heals the other cut and walks around to face me again. I wish I could turn those vicious spells of his against that horrid smirking face! But I can’t even _move_.

“You stubborn little fool,” he snarls. “I’ve had grown wizards weeping at my feet, begging me for death in return for telling me anything I want to know.  Do you really think you’re so superior you can resist forever?”

Of course I can’t. It’s too much to ask.

_Hermione Granger – admitting failure?_

No one could endure this.  No one.

 _But you_ could _endure a little longer, couldn’t you?_

For what?

“All right. I’ll drink your potion.”  A last shiver of resistance, but also an unexpected sense of relief at finally admitting that I have no choice.  And I still have a chance against the potion.  There are some things he won’t know to ask about.

He nods peremptorily. “Not the most gracious response, but we can work on that.”

I wince as he touches his wand to the wound on my arm.  And lifts it away.

“That one, I think I’ll leave. It’s actually rather an awkward one to heal. And perhaps it might remind you to be a little more sensible in future.”

He waves his wand and suddenly I am free of the wall.  I grasp at the stone for support and turn to face the room.  Pain shoots through my left arm as I lift it, but at least I _can_ lift it.  Thank God.  I cradle it with my other arm and stumble back to the chair.

So again we’re facing each other across the desk.  And again he’s carefully pouring out the potion and pushing the goblet towards me.  But this time I’m going to drink it.

I almost wish he _had_ put me under Imperius. At least Imperius can be thrown off, theoretically - but I can’t escape my own weakness.  If I were a Slytherin, perhaps I could fool myself that I was making a tactical move as part of a larger strategy, but as it is I know I’m just trying to save my own skin.  For a little longer.

I offer silent apologies to my friends.  But apologies are meaningless.

Actions aren’t.  I _will_ resist. I focus my thoughts on the Light.

And I drink.


	3. Honour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can Hermione act with Gryffindor honour, as a Dark Potion courses through her veins?  
> For Lucius, honour lies in ends, not means, but this time the 'end' may not be to his liking...

A dark wave rolls over me, leaving me... unchanged.  But that is deceptive.

There - that moment of queasiness in the pit of my stomach, that slight sharpening of the senses, so that I feel every breath, every twinge of pain as I move my arm, with startling clarity.  I remember this from Potions class.  But I can’t tell where the limits are.

He’s watching me as closely as I’m observing myself.

"I should warn you," he says, "that after our little... interlude, your response to the potion is likely to be somewhat more intense than usual.  So I wouldn’t attempt to hide too much, if I were you."

My stomach clenches - from fear, or from the potion? But then he would say that.  I’ll find out for myself soon enough.

He smiles.  He can see that I’ve no intention of heeding the warning.

"So you still don’t regret indulging your deluded notion that you could be a witch?"

A bolt of anger stabs through me.  I give way to it - I’m not going to hide my answer to that one.

"It’s not me who’s deluded.  And the only thing I regret is that you and your slimy little son ever walked the face of this earth!"

_"Flagello."_

The hex cracks across my cheek and I clasp a hand to my face.

"It’s Honesty Potion, Mudblood, not insolence potion.  _Don’t_ think that I’m going to let you get away with that sort of remark."

I touch the welt carefully.  Great.  So now I have to try to stop myself saying what he doesn’t want to hear, as well as what I don’t want to tell him.

Deep breath.  I try to calm the rolling in my gut.

"So... no regrets, Mudblood?  You will have, I promise you that. But I think you’ve wasted enough time for today."

He leans back, watching me with a calculating expression.  "Hmm.  Let’s start where we left off last summer, shall we?"

I don’t want to think about that. Such a treacherously beautiful August day, and I was feeling so proud of myself, making my first solo trip to Diagon Alley.  A whole afternoon to explore the little shops, without having to provide my parents with a running commentary, and with no one to stop me losing myself amid the shelves of Flourish and Blotts... until _he_ turned up, that is.

He’s speaking again, that horrible drawl that holds me in the same paralysis now as it did then.

_No.  You’ll be stronger this time._

But he will be worse...

_Don’t think about that._

"Now, as I recall, you were most - informative - about your connection with Sirius Black and a certain Hippogriff.  But there’s one more thing I’d like to know."

I never told him _anything._   He must have known enough already to make some clever guesses when he saw what I was reading.  If only I’d been able to think more quickly, to lie more convincingly... But I’m a Gryffindor. Lying isn’t my strong point. Not when facing someone like _him._

He leans across the desk as if his pointed nose will cut straight to the truth.

"Where is he now?"

The trick is to fake the reaction when telling the truth, and try to dampen it when I need to lie.  But I don’t know yet how the Probitaserum will affect me. I try a half-truth.

"I don’t know."

A wave of nausea surges over me.  I fight it, grimacing, telling myself firmly that I _don’t_ know exactly where Sirius is at this moment.  Where he’s supposed to be is another matter.

But I can’t hide my reaction.  That’s worrying.  Either he was right about the effects of his torture on my ability to resist, or this is ten times stronger than what we made in Potions class.  Or both.

He raises an eyebrow.  "No idea at all?  It rather looks as if you’re being less than honest with me."

A stab through my gut.  I feel as if I’m about to vomit.  I try to keep my expression blank but I can’t, I can’t, I’m going to be sick.

_Hang in there, Hermione.  You know what to do._

I need to answer the question truthfully, but not with the truth he’s after. "I can’t tell you," I say.  "Nothing that you could use."

The heaving in my stomach subsides to a queasy background anxiety.

"I’d prefer to judge that for myself, Mudblood."

"I’m sure you would."  There, that’s honest.  Completely honest.  I take a deep breath.

His mouth tightens.  " _Don’t_ make me play twenty questions with you again," he snaps.

I say nothing.  He narrows his eyes.

"Very well.  Perhaps you’d just like to confirm that he’s been staying in London?"

I wince, slightly more than is justified by the absence of inner turmoil. I already know what I’m going to say to that one.

"I did read that he’d been seen there, but then the _Daily Prophet_ doesn’t seem to be too reliable these days," I say as coolly as I can.

I see his hand clench on his wand, but then he appears to force himself to relax.

"Don’t play games with me.  _I’ve_ seen him in London, with you and your pathetic little friends, though I might not have realised if I hadn’t known you were hiding him.  I’ve been meaning to thank you for that piece of information."

Right now I want to smash that goblet into his smirking face.  He thinks he’s so _bloody_ superior, that he has the _right_ to wave his wand and throw me against the wall just because he has the power to do it. I hate him!

_Calm down Hermione.  Deep breath._

It’s the potion, amplifying my anger.  He’s just using it to try to provoke me into saying something I don’t want to reveal.  And if that smug _bastard_ thinks I’m going to fall for that...  I settle for glaring at him.

He gives me a supercilious little smile that makes me want to hit him, and continues.  "Now where, I thought to myself, would the most wanted man in Britain hide out if he came to London?"

This is too close for comfort.  I fake a look of incomprehension to mask my sudden fear and the corresponding twinge in my gut. If I can keep changing my expression then perhaps he’ll miss what he’s looking for.

"Dear cousin Sirius," he mocks. "He never was the most prudent of wizards.  But then, the Aurors seem too fixated on scouring Tibet to even think of looking for him at _home_."

 _He knows._ And I can’t help thinking of Kingsley Shacklebolt, spending his days making sure that his colleagues look anywhere _but_ the Black family residence.  I try to blank that thought out.

Oh God, I _am_ going to be sick.  I want to be sick.  It’ll feel better once I’ve been sick, won’t it?

_Not with Probitaserum._

I’m shivering, but I can’t give into this.

"Of course," he says, "there are probably some in the Ministry who don’t _need_ to look for him, hmm?"

I struggle not to show a reaction.  He laughs.

"You’re looking far too innocent, Mudblood.  Or attempting to, rather - which can only mean that you know _exactly_ what I’m talking about.  But we can discuss that later.  Right now I’d like you to explain to me just why I couldn’t find the Black’s moth-eaten townhouse when I went to see if my suspicions were correct."

He did _what_?  Suddenly all of Moody’s precautions seem less like paranoia than the bare minimum security.

"Of course I know where it is," he says.  "I’ve been there with my wife often enough. A rather... unsubtle taste in interior décor, if I recall correctly.  And is that dirty little house-elf still skulking round the place?  A particularly repugnant animal, it was... though no uglier than its relatives, judging by Madam Elladora’s little trophy collection."

How _dare_ he?  It’s bad enough that he thinks he has the right to treat _me_ like dirt just because I can’t trace my ancestry back through fifteen centuries of evil pureblooded wizards.  But that he picks on the likes of Dobby and that wretched Kreacher for their situation, a situation that he and those like him have created, is utterly despicable!

"If it weren’t for people like you, they wouldn’t have to skulk, or wear those filthy rags!" I say furiously. "Kreacher should never have been imprisoned in that house in the first place.  It’s not his fault he’s losing his mind!"

He smiles. Triumphant. Vicious.

 _Damn, damn, damn._ I’m biting my tongue, literally.  But all my frustration and self-disgust can’t pull back those words.

"Dear me," he smirks. "You really should learn to control that temper."

But why the hell should I, when he’s _provoking_ me? And I’m only reacting like this because of that awful potion he made me drink!  I find myself on my feet, leaning across the desk.  Not quite close enough to get to him physically.

"Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do!" I yell at him.  "You made me drink that potion! Isn’t this what you wanted, you foul, evil-"

"Sit down," he hisses furiously, pointing his wand straight at my heart.  His eyes rest on my injured arm and suddenly it’s burning, a searing pain flaring along the wound so that I can _feel_ the heat radiating out from it. I grit my teeth against the agony as I sink back into the chair.

"I’ve already told you I will _not_ tolerate you addressing me in such a manner.  One more outburst like that and what you’re experiencing now will feel like a mild Warming Charm in comparison.  Is that understood?"

"Yes," I reply, with more than a hint of a snarl.  The fire in my arm is making me light-headed.  I wish I were an Animagus. If I were Crookshanks I’d be across the desk scratching his eyes out.

He flicks his wand and the sensation subsides to a background throb... throb... throb.  I take a deep breath.

"And I think you can stop pretending ignorance now.  I know a Fidelius Charm when I see one.  Or rather, when I _don’t_ see one.  So why don’t you just tell me who the Secret-Keeper is?  And what exactly it is they’re trying to hide?"

 _No_ way _am I going to tell him that!_

And suddenly I know that I’m going to be sick.  My stomach is heaving and I’m clutching my belly, aware of nothing but the swelling nausea as I knock my chair backwards and run for the bathroom.

_"IMPEDIMENTA!"_

It’s as if an invisible hand grabs me by the scruff of the neck and jerks me backwards.  My feet fly up and I hit the floor.

I’m going to be sick...

I roll over onto my hands and knees, vaguely aware of the beginnings of a bruise where I fell on my hip.  But before I can stand up he’s crouching beside me, his fingers twisting my hair as he forces my head back.

"Look at me, Mudblood," he snarls.  "You’re going to answer the question, and you’re going to do it where I can hear you."

Question? Oh, _that_ question.  I’m going to be sick...

Maybe I _should_ be sick.  Right here.  Would serve him right.

That rolling pain in my gut again.  Instinctively I try to pitch forward but he tightens his grip and it feels as if my hair is coming out by the roots.  I wobble and reach out wildly to regain my balance.  My hand finds a knee.  His knee - but at the moment I don’t care.  Anything to brace myself against the rising tide of nausea.

He tenses, then shoves me away.  _"Don’t touch me!"_

I recover my balance and turn to stare at him.  He’s looking at me with utter revulsion.

What was that about?

" _Never_ do that again!" he hisses.

"Do what?"

"Mudblood!" he spits. He gets to his feet.

Does he really hate Muggleborns enough to react like that just because I _touched_ him?  But… but… _he_ touched _me_ before…

He’s standing over me, chest rising and falling with each furious breath.  I freeze.  Some instinct tells me that he’s on the edge: one small push and he’ll tear me limb from limb.  He stabs his wand towards me.

"Who is the Secret-Keeper? Who?"

I look away.  I’m going to be sick. I _want_ to be sick - it would be a relief.  But these rolling waves of nausea always stop short of that.

I could just tell the truth.  It’s not as if it’s difficult to guess.  And it’s not as if the person in question can’t protect himself.

_Better than he protected me._

No. That’s not fair.  I walked into this.  And he’s not omnipotent.  I’m going to be sick.

_But still..._

Don’t think like that.  He _will_ get me out of here.

_Especially if he guesses the source of the leak.  If he works out where I am._

Is that tactic or treachery?

I don’t know.  I can’t think. I’m going to be sick. I can’t be sick.  I need to clear my head.  I wouldn’t be telling him anything he doesn’t know already.

At that thought, the nausea subsides.  I’m shivering, but I no longer feel I’m about to vomit.

I push myself to my feet and face him.  I want to see his reaction when I tell him who he’s up against.

I speak calmly, deliberately.  A challenge: "Professor Dumbledore."

But as soon as I say it, tears spring to my eyes. That horrible potion again, amplifying my reaction so that I’m drowning in guilt. _My considered betrayal._

"As I thought." He nods thoughtfully, and holds my gaze.  I refuse to look away.  And for a moment he’s not mocking, not hate-filled, but just... searching. Then he nods again.

"Good," he says quietly, his tone maintaining that almost-maskless communication.  "Now tell me what he’s doing there."

He’s still looking straight into my eyes.  Too close.  I need to think how to answer that, as I start to shake and… no, no, I’m _not_ going to be sick.  I turn my head away... but he reaches out and grasps my chin in his gloved fingers.  His lip curls slightly as he touches me - and I remember now that he had that same look of distaste in the bookshop, when he forced me to look at him as he sliced apart my attempt to keep the secret of Sirius.

"Well?"

I grimace again, holding back the rising tide of nausea.

The truth.  As much of it as I can tell without giving anything away.

"I don’t really know.  All I did was clean out some rooms."

He smiles.  "How very appropriate.  But not quite good enough, I’m afraid.  I don’t believe for a moment that someone as inquisitive as yourself would be satisfied with that."

A stab of panic: way, way out of proportion. "But they didn’t let us hear anything!"

"They?"

 _Damn_. How much does he know, anyway?  What’s safe to tell him?  Can I convince him with a lie?  Not when he’s watching me this closely.  And I don’t know what I could say anyhow.

I’m feeling sick again.  Will this ever stop?  I just want it to stop.

It would if I just told him the truth.  The Order will have a plan to protect themselves against this, won’t they?

But no. _It’s my considered betrayal he wants._ And he’s not going to get it.  Illusory nausea I can take.

My stomach heaves and I retch, jerking my head away - but he tightens his grip and brings my chin back so that I can’t avoid looking at him.  I want to close my eyes, but the last time I did that...

"Still being stubborn, little one? Well, that will only make it all the more satisfying when I finally break you."

I hate him, I hate him.  That’s not a lie.  And that lets me feel slightly better.  Perhaps if I focus on being honest with myself, with what _I_ want... could I override my reaction to hiding the truth from him?  Could a Slytherin like him even recognise self-honesty?

"Arthur Weasley," he says.

What?

"Oh, come on, he’s the worst type of Muggle-loving blood-traitor.  Don’t tell me _he’s_ not up to his eyeballs in anything Dumbledore is plotting."

Rage boils up inside me, blocking out the nausea, and before I can stop to think I leap to his defence. "Mr Weasley is one of the most decent people I’ve ever met!  Not that someone like you could ever comprehend that."

He raises an eyebrow.  "Know him well, do you?  Seen a lot of him recently?"

_That smug, evil, foul..._

_Breathe._

"No." Not ‘a lot’. And not _recently_. No lie, no need to feel sick. _Really_ no need to feel sick. "I know Mr Weasley because I’m a friend of the family. I’ve stayed at their house."

"Lucky you," he sneers. "I think we’ll take that as a ‘yes’ - I’m sure the Minister won’t take much persuading to get rid of him.  And while we’re on the subject of Weasleys, how about young Percy?"

Percy?  He must know about Percy, if he’s even half as much in with the Minister as that smarmy son of his is always making out.

He nods, and continues. "Hmm. And Bill Weasley?  I hear he had a very serendipitously timed transfer to Gringotts’ London office.  Or was that just on account of that French whore he’s seeing?"

I try to look puzzled, incredulous, indignant. It looks as if he’s going to run through everyone I know. Why did the Order allow us to see so much?  Why did I allow myself to look, to learn, to know all these things that he’s prising out of me?

He smiles.  "Griselda Marchbanks?"

Who?  The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.  Someone for whom there’s nothing to betray.  For a moment I feel relief... but then I realise I am trapped.  Unless I can manage not to react to the names I recognise, the only way to protect them is to pretend to react to all of them - but that would mean putting those people in danger for which they’re not even prepared.  What can I do?

His fingers are digging painfully into my chin.

"Perhaps that would have been too obvious," he says in that infuriating mock-thoughtful manner of his. "Let’s go out on a limb, shall we?  Tell me what you know about Severus Snape."

I stare at him in shock for a moment, before the nausea hits me again. My mind is racing and I try to hide that behind a facade of bafflement.  However much I dislike Professor Snape, I can’t lose this one, it’s too important.

_Find a reason for the way you reacted.  Quickly!_

"Professor Snape?" I query, trying for a bemused tone.

"Mmm.  Do tell."

I try for a perplexed look.  I try to _feel_ my belief in what I’m about to say.

He frowns. "Don’t try to play the innocent.  You’re obviously attempting to hide something.  Now tell me what it is."

_I will.  But not so soon that it’s unconvincing._

I bite my lip, trying to look scared.  I don’t really have to fake that one.

"But, I don’t _know_..."  I let my voice trail off.

He raises an eyebrow.  I screw up my forehead in mock confusion.  With luck, it’ll cover my reaction to feeling so ill...

"Well... I thought he was on your side. A... a Death Eater."

I wince at the stab of pain that accompanies the lie, but he seems to interpret that as the wizard fear of naming the unthinkable. He sucks in his breath sharply.

"Now that, Mudblood, is a very serious allegation to make – as someone really should have told young Potter before he tried to slander me to the Minister.  I don’t know how things work where you come from, but here you can’t just accuse everyone you don’t get on with of so-called criminal activity."

What breathtaking hypocrisy!  My indignation clears my head - and gut - for a moment.  If he really expects me to take that without comment...

"Really? I thought the Ministry valued money more than truth.  Or justice."

His eyes flash.  "It’s not a question of gold, Mudblood. No true wizard would sit idly by while those Muggle-loving idiots destroy everything. And you’re even more naive than you look if you think I’m the only one who uses my influence where I can."

Abruptly, he releases me and paces away.  I take a step backwards and rub my jaw.

"Take your precious Headmaster," he sneers. "From what you told me last summer he seems to think he’s completely above the law… Interfering with Black’s sentence was outrageous enough, but twisting _time_ to do it...  Still, that did make it so much easier to destroy his credibility with the Minister.  I’ve been meaning to thank you for that piece of information, as well."

 _So it was my fault that Professor Dumbledore was ostracised_ , is what the bastard’s trying to imply. One more charge to lay at his feet…. except that was one the Ministry would never have leaked to the _Daily Prophet_ \- not when it was them who’d given me the Time-Turner in the first place.

He’s regarding me with cold satisfaction.  "See how useful you’ve been already? Knowledge is power, you know… though I suppose in your case that isn’t quite true.  You do need to know how to _apply_ the knowledge, after all.  Which is where we can work together..."

I turn away in disgust.  A mistake - suddenly he’s right behind me.

"Speaking of which, I believe you were about to tell me your basis for accusing your Potions Master of treachery."

 _Treachery_... at that word the effects of the potion surge past my defences and I double up, retching.

 _Think_... but all I can remember is watching Professor Snape striding from the hospital wing last summer on his mysterious errand.  _No... think back._ Harry saw his trial in the Pensieve, that’s the only reason we knew, because Harry heard Professor Dumbledore vouch for him despite his having been a Death Eater…

…but he only vouched for him because he was a spy.

I’m going to be sick.  I’m shaking, icy rivulets of hot and cold cascading through me… I stare at the floor.  I don’t think I can keep standing....

"Rather an extreme reaction, I would say, for a small matter of supplementary information?"

I can hear the smug smile in his voice.  I _hate_ him.

I sink to the floor, shivering.  But I refuse to say anything more, no matter how sick I feel.  I try to blot out his voice, but I can’t.

"But there’s no need to go to these lengths to prove your loyalty.  I’m well aware that Severus has been spying for Dumbledore. For some reason he’s always been most anxious to gain Draco’s trust.  It’s made it very easy for us to keep an eye on him."

I stare at him, open mouthed.  Dozens of little incidents in corridor and potions lab suddenly fall into place.  He smiles, lazily twirling his wand.

"Or, rather let us say that I’ve had my suspicions, which I think you’ve just helpfully confirmed for me."

_No._

I can’t believe I’ve made the same mistake again, reacting honestly rather than putting on a mask of confusion, or surprise, or _anything_ that would have let me hide the truth!  I was always taught to be honest, but under these circumstances that’s the _least_ honourable course of action.

So I let him back me into a corner.  Again.  And he’s made me give away one of the Order’s most vital secrets _and_ put Professor Snape and God knows how many others in danger.  I can’t just let him make use of that! I have to stop him – but how?  He’s just standing there like the smug privileged _bastard_ that he is, smirking away as if he can do what so ever damn thing he pleases, as if I count for nothing except how much information he can wring from my mind and I have had _enough_ and I hate him I hate him

"I _hate_ you, you evil twisted _inbred_ bigot!"

And almost before I realise what I’m doing, I’ve sprung at him from where I was crouching on the floor.  He freezes for a split second – _thank God for his aversion to Muggleborns!_ – and I grab for his wand, right hand gripping wrist, left hand grabbing wand and bending it back over his hand.  For one glorious moment he loosens his grip and I feel a fierce rush of elation… then with a snarl of fury he brings his other hand down on mine. He’s prising away my fingers from his wrist and I desperately try to pull the wand out of his hand. But he’s holding it too tightly.  Nothing matters except getting that wand and I use the only weapon I have.  I bite into his wrist as hard as I can.

He yells. His grip relaxes slightly and I twist the wand in his hand

but his other hand is twisted in my hair. He wrenches my head away, forcing me to bend backwards but I _can’t_ let go of that wand.

"Let go of me, you little animal!" he spits out. "You’re going to regret the day you were born!"

I can see every pore in his white skin, every tiny line radiating from mouth and eyes, every muscle clenched in fury, his expression horribly eager and far more savage than any of Hagrid’s monsters have ever been…

_He’s going to kill me_

but he’s not seeing _me_.  He’s looking through me as if by tearing me apart he could annihilate everything he’s ever hated in one fierce blow.

His breathing is harsh.  My heart is pounding.

_I don’t want to die._

He brings up his wand hand and I push it back, but he’s too strong for me. He lifts his other hand to pull me upright. I have to stretch up onto my toes to keep balance.

I’m still fighting his wand hand down but it’s almost level with my chest.

I stumble.  He forces my head higher and my hair pulls painfully all across my scalp.

A vicious, horrible smile.  Spider to fly.

And swaying there, off balance, I suddenly remember Harry telling us about that giant spider attacking him in the maze last summer...

One chance.

I’m still clutching that wand as he manoeuvres it upwards.  I slip my hand down against his, and grip the wood as tight as I can.  With my other hand I shove the tip of the wand towards him as I gasp out, _"Expelliarmus!"_

My arm jerks painfully as the force of the spell blasts us apart, throwing me back across the floor.

I blink and scramble to my feet.  He must have landed against the desk, but he’s picking himself up now.  The look on his face would turn Medusa to stone.

"How _dare_ you!"  He lunges across the room towards me.  I duck to the right.  If I can get behind that desk, if I can keep out of reach just until he calms down...

And I suddenly realise that I’m still clutching the wand.

I reach the wall, turn, aim. _"IMPEDIMENTA!"_

The force of the spell almost knocks my aim off, but it hurls him backwards.  I point the wand at him as he gets slowly to his feet.  My hand is shaking.  Steady enough, though.

He steps towards me, face twisted with fury. 

"Stay back!"  My voice is shaking as well.

_Breathe, Hermione._

He stops. He folds his arms. His expression relaxes to a mocking sneer.

"Or you’ll do what, exactly?"  He laughs derisively and steps towards me. "Do you really think you could harm me with the rubbish that Flitwick teaches? Now, why don’t you give me back my wand before you hurt yourself with it?"  He takes another step forward.

Rage and panic flare inside me and I lash out with the first thing that comes into my head.

_"Locomotor Mortis!"_

Again he crashes to the floor. _That_ wipes the smirk off his face.

He pushes himself over and leans on his hands as if he’s going to pull himself across the floor.  But then he leans back on his elbow in mock repose.  Even now the arrogant bastard has to prove that a Malfoy won’t crawl to a Mudblood...

I watch him closely.  Would he have a spare wand with him here?  But if he does, he’s not using it.

"So what do you think you’re going to do now?" he sneers.

So sure of himself, even when he’s down.

_Be careful..._

I need to get out of here.  Away from this dark hole and away from him.  My eyes fall on the goblet on the desk.  I point the wand at it, visualising Professor McGonagall’s office as clearly as I can.

_"Portus."_

I smile triumphantly as I feel the shivering vibration from head to toes to arm to hand to wandtip.  I’m going home!

But the spell dissipates.  No blue glow.  No transformation.

Maybe the spell doesn’t show the same way using a strange wand.  I seize the goblet.

Nothing.

No.  There has to be a way to get out of here.

I glance down to where he’s lying on the floor.  That infuriating smirk is back. "Didn’t you know that unauthorised Portkeys are against the law?" he says.  "We wouldn’t want you to get into trouble with the Ministry, would we?"

_Don’t let him see how much he’s getting to you._

I point the wand at him firmly. "Tell me how to get out of here!"

He laughs. "Manners, Mudblood.  Didn’t anyone ever teach you to say ‘please’?"

I grit my teeth.  "I suppose someone taught _you_ that kidnap and torture were the height of good etiquette."

"Perhaps not the best etiquette, no."  He smiles lazily. "But very effective.  And so entertaining - given the right company, of course."

He’s eyeing me in a way that makes me feel... soiled.  I can’t believe he can make me feel this small when he’s the one on the floor.

But why the hell _should_ I feel ashamed?  Everything that’s happened is his fault, not mine.  _His_ fault.  My grip on the wand tightens.  He’s so smug, so sure of himself and his position.  Just for an instant, I wish I could show him what it _feels_ like, what he’s done to me.

"Wanting to kill me, Mudblood?"

I’m not answering that - I am _not_ going to let him direct this conversation.  But at the thought I grimace as the nausea boils up inside me.  That horrid potion of his hasn’t worn off yet.

He smirks.

Again, that flare of anger.  I fight it down - I need to stay in control.  But actually, I do want to answer his question.  Truthfully.

"No.  I want to see you rot in Azkaban!"

A delicate grimace.  "How charming of you.  But I think that’s unlikely, all things considered."

"Not if I have anything to do with it!"

"But you won’t.  You don’t even know what to do with that wand.  Typical Gryffindor - always too squeamish to learn the really useful spells."

"I know _plenty_ of useful spells!"

...but I can’t think of one that will make him tell me how to get out.  That would require Dark magic.  I shiver - perhaps he was right about the Aurors after all.

He snorts.  "All you know is children’s conjuring tricks.  But I’m curious, Mudblood. I’d have thought the feel of a wand in your hand might have lessened your aversion to what I showed you earlier."

What’s he on about?

_Don’t listen to him, Hermione.  Don’t get drawn in._

I need to get out.  Could I Apparate?  Percy Weasley told me all about Apparition last year, I might be able to manage it... but if the Portus Charm didn’t work, there’s bound to be some sort of Anti-Disapparition Jinx on the place.  So how does _he_ get in and out?  How can I get him to tell me?

"Don’t you want revenge, little one?"

No! Justice is what I want.

I feel sick.

"Why would anyone want to sink to your level?" I snap.

His smirk vanishes for a moment.  "So self righteous," he hisses.  "So _ignorant_.  And you don’t fool me for an instant.  Are you really telling me you wouldn’t use the Loquiveritas Curse if you could?"

I’ve heard of Loquiveritas.  It’s complex.  And nasty.  And it might have got me the information I need.  But that doesn’t mean I’d have used it though - unlike _some_ people, I know the difference between right and wrong.

There must be another way.

He laughs.  "Or did you just keep yourself ignorant to make sure you wouldn’t be tempted? But I think you’re regretting that now, aren’t you?  Standing over me with a wand in your hand, and still there’s nothing you can do to save yourself…"

No. No.  That isn’t true.  There has to be a way out of this.

"So would you like me to teach you?" A low, insidious chuckle. "I could even bring you a couple of little friends to practice on..."

That’s horrible.  I wish he’d shut up.  I should make him shut up.  I glare at him – I won’t dignify his taunts with a reply.

"No?  Well, I dare say there are a few surplus house-elves round the place."

"You are so _sick_."  My hand is shaking, I’m gripping the wand so tightly.

He smiles, showing his teeth. "Oh come on, it’s not as if they’re not used to it. But if you don’t you like that idea we always could round up some of the local Muggles.  There’s far too many of them as it is."

That’s my friends and neighbours he’s talking about.  Mrs Simpson at the corner shop.  Ms Jones, the teacher who let me read any book in the library when I was only seven.  And _he_ would just use them as if they were nothing. Less than nothing.  I blink back tears of rage. Those friendly adults who’d talk to me when I had to wait in my parents’ surgery after school. My Granddad trying to slip me sweets when he thought my Mum wasn’t looking...

That insufferable sneering face!  He thinks he’s so far above everyone else that he can do what he likes, and I hate him.  I hate him!  They may not be able to do magic, but they’re _people_ , hardworking, decent people.  He doesn’t know them, he would never even try to know them.  I wish I could make him _see_ , to cut through that smug superiority and make him see that he’s only human like everybody else.  To know what it’s like to be powerless, to _hurt_ , but all I can do is, is – _"Crucio!"_

I gasp as the power rips through me.  He screams, a horrible high-pitched howl.  His back arches and he’s jerking from side to side, his face in a hideous rictus grin with every muscle clenched, shuddering and twitching and _screaming_.

The wand falls from my fingers.

_That was an Unforgivable Curse._

What have I done?

_They’ll send me to Azkaban..._

He’s staring back at me in equal shock.

Quickly I bend to pick up the wand.  I didn’t know I could even cast that, just from absorbing the theory.  The fake Professor Moody told me far more than he should have done, I know, but...

_Not that he doesn’t deserve it.  Not that he hasn’t done far worse himself._

That doesn’t make it right, though.

I feel sick.

He opens his mouth to speak but his words are lost in a fit of coughing.  His hair is straggled across his face, sticking to skin that is shiny with sweat.

I lean against the wall.  This can’t be happening.  What do I do now?

"You..." He coughs. "You wait, Mudblood," he rasps out.  "I’m going to treasure every single second when I do that to you."  There’s no condescension in his voice now.  Just hatred.

And that utter certainty that he can still threaten me.  I hate him. If only I could bring him down!  I use my coldest voice to reply.

"You won’t."

"I will."

I feel a shiver of dread, despite myself.  I have to get away.

I point the wand at him again.  I want him to be afraid.  I want him to know how it felt for me.  But he just sneers.

"You are so unconvincing," he says.  "You’re so scared of that wand you couldn’t even keep hold of it."

"Really?" But under my anger and frustration I’m feeling slightly ill – the Probitaserum is making me wince, giving the lie to my bravado.

"I rather think you’ve just proved my point," he says.  "If you’re going to threaten people, you do need to prove you can carry out your threats, hmm?"

Right.  He’s _asking_ for it.  And no one deserves it more than him.  If the smirking bastard _really_ wants me to hurt him… and oh God, do I ever want to show him how it _feels_ …

Suddenly he rolls to one side

_"CRUCIO!"_

but the curse catches him and again he’s screaming and writhing on the floor in front of me, staring in my direction but not looking at me, not looking at anything…

This time I don’t let go.  The power is flowing through me and out of me and I’m flinging back all his insults, all the humiliation, all the pain and all his evil enjoyment of it.  But it’s not just for me, it’s for Hagrid and Buckbeak and little Colin and Penelope and Justin and especially for poor Ginny who still has nightmares about that stinking diary and for all the unnamed people over the years who he’s hurt far, far worse than what I’m doing to him now.  He owes us all, and I’m making him pay in that screaming agony that he so loves to dole out.  And then we’ll see if he writes me off just because I wasn’t born a witch.  Revenge?  Justice!  He needs to know what it feels like!

The screaming stops.  He’s still jerking about, his arms and legs flailing at odd angles.  His head lolls grotesquely.

I release the spell and stare at him, horrified.  He’s lying face-down like a broken doll.

_Is he dead?_

In a sudden panic I aim the wand.

_"Enervate."_

Nothing.

_"ENERVATE!"_

Still nothing.

I step closer.  Could he be bluffing?  No.  Not even he could do that.  But I’m not chancing anything where he’s concerned.

_"Mobilicorpus."_

I lift him a little way off the floor, and turn him on his side.  His eyes are still closed.  No signs of consciousness, but he appears to be breathing.  I step a little closer.  Yes... there’s a definite movement in his chest.  I lay him down.

_Thank God for that._

No matter how evil he is, I don’t want his death on my conscience.  Certainly not like _that._   I shiver.  What came over me?

The Probitaserum, for one thing.  But... but...

_Face it, Hermione. It’s Dark magic. You know the dangers of that._

...the Curse itself, feeding on my hate and my shame and my... my need for the revenge I said I didn’t want. Seeking out the cracks in my integrity and forcing them open.  That’s why it was easier the second time.

And if there’s a third time...?

No.  No, I’m not succumbing to that.

_Don’t think about it._

But I have to think about it.  It’s denial of the Dark that leaves you vulnerable to it.

_But I’m a Gryffindor._

As if that would make me immune!  As soon as you think you can control it, you’re lost.

I crouch down beside him.  He’s breathing gently; he could be asleep except for the occasional muscle spasms that must be an after-effect of the Curse.  His mouth is open. A small trickle of blood is bright against the pale skin.

Did _he_ think he could control it?  Probably - he seems to think he can control everything else.  Perhaps Slytherins are brought up to believe they can avoid the dangers of the Dark if they meet it on its own terms.  Do they even realise there’s a price for that?

It’s a bit eerie, watching him lying there unconscious.  His face is slack \- no sneer, no anger, no cold calculation, no cruelty.  Just a pointed alabaster face like those Italian statues my parents took me to see when I was ten, but much more real with those faint lines running from his mouth and the corners of his eyes, and the white-blond hair falling across his cheek.

There can’t be many wizards who’ve seen him looking this unguarded, and probably no Muggleborns.  I feel a bit uncomfortable.  Guilt, I suppose.

A faint twinge of nausea.  I stand up and take a deep breath.

But this is no time for guilt. It’s… it’s not my fault he’s lying there. It isn’t.  Professor Moody – Crouch, I mean, and _he_ should know about it if anyone does – told us that reaching for unconsciousness is about the only possible defence against Cruciatus.  So he must have caused that, not me.

Doesn’t stop me feeling sick, though.

It always struck me as a rather stupid defence, really, seeing that it just leaves you completely at the mercy of the person who’s been Cursing you.

_Right.  And that’s you, isn’t it? So what are you going to do about it?_

I- I don’t know.  What _can_ I do?  I’ve always had the others with me, before…

_So what would Harry do, in this situation?_

Kill him, probably.

That’s a horrible thought.  But I can’t help thinking of that look on his face when he faced Sirius in the Shrieking Shack, before we knew he was innocent.  And _this_ one is anything but innocent.

Not that Harry would really have done it, I think. When he talked about it afterwards he was so horrified at the idea that he might have done.  But at the time…

_This isn’t a productive train of thought._

So… what would Ron do?  He’s the strategist.  Is there something obvious I’m missing, something that a Wizard-born would have done straight away?

Perhaps there’s a hidden door to this place.  I didn’t check that before.

I brighten the light, blinking, and look around the room carefully.  There’s nothing in the irregular outlines of the stones that looks remotely like a doorway, but maybe I just don’t know how to see it.  I should have paid more attention to the twins’ methods for finding hidden passageways.

The brightness is hurting my eyes.  I dim the light.

If I can’t see where the door _is_ , perhaps I can work out where it _should_ be?  There’s a spell that can show up gaps behind walls.  I cast it carefully.

All the stones glow the same dull red colour, with just a few tiny bright patches at the tops of the walls. If it worked properly, that means that not only is there no doorway, but even the adjacent rooms aren’t detectable.

If there are any adjacent rooms.

But this _is_ his wand, after all.  Perhaps it’s just not working properly for me.

Those bright patches are worrying, though.  I presume they’re ventilation gaps of some kind.  If the spell picked those up, it would have picked up a door, wouldn’t it?

Perhaps there’s nothing but earth behind those walls...  I _need_ to get out of here.  I’ll have to try to Apparate.  I really don’t want to risk it, but anything’s better than being buried here.  I just hope it’s easier than flying.

_Wait..._

No point in splinching myself if I can help it – I should have a look at what security measures there are on the place.  A summer cleaning Grimmauld Place should have taught me everything I need to know about _those_.

My detector spell radiates out through the stones.  The tip of the wand glows bright blue, then orange, then emits a pulsing green and red pattern. After a short pause it appears to radiate darkness, and then there’s nothing.

Blue: that must be what absorbed the Portus Charm.  Orange is an alarm, if I remember correctly - that’ll be what alerted him when I arrived.  The black is a basic Concealment Charm, embedded into the stones so that the room and the other spells are undetectable from the outside.  That green and red though... the Blacks’ house has one of those; Professor Lupin showed me after he and Alastor Moody spent three days modifying it.

Considering their obsession with blood, it would have been more surprising if the Malfoys _didn’t_ use a Sanguiclavis Charm to secure the place.

I stare at the walls in frustration.  I _can’t_ be trapped here, I can’t!

_"REDUCTO!"_

I fling the spell at the wall.  It bounces back.  I dive out of the way.  My foot catches his leg and I barely stop myself falling.

No wonder the bastard was so sure of himself.  No fireplace, no way to make a Portkey, no way for a non-Malfoy to Apparate.  And as he’s so fond of pointing out, I don’t have a single drop of _that_ blood flowing in my veins.

_There’s eight pints of it on the floor in front of you, though._

Eesh.  That’s a Dark thought: just to… use him like that.  Is that another consequence of casting Cruciatus?

_It’s your only hope of getting out of here._

That might be true...

_Do you think he’d have any hesitation about doing the same to you?_

Suddenly I’m very conscious of his presence.  I want to get away.  Now.

Okay.  Theoretically, what would it take to get me past that barrier?  Just a small symbolic mingling, blood-oath style, or would it take something approaching a full transfusion?  Could I smear it on my skin?  Or do I have to drink it?

 _Yuck_.

I don’t know that much about Blood Magic.  I’ve found the very idea repulsive ever since everything that happened in second year.  But with Apparition, the important thing is to keep a sense of your whole body.  Perhaps if I just made those cuts near the main joints it would work.

And if it didn’t?

_Don’t think about that.  Anything’s better than staying here._

But I can’t do it anyhow.  I don’t know how to use that cutting spell of his, and there’s no knife here.

 _You’re a_ witch _, Hermione.  Transfigure something!_

A cold weight settles in my stomach.  I look down to where he’s lying, breathing gently in and out...

_You brought me here.  Don’t blame me for this._

I look around.  I can’t conjure a knife out of thin air.  That goblet is the obvious thing to use, except that I need something to catch the blood in.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

_Don’t think about it._

Something vaguely knife-shaped would be best.  After a moment’s thought I fetch the toothbrush from the bathroom.  The Transfiguration is straightforward.

I set the wand down on the floor and kneel beside him.  I look at the small silver knife in my hand, and back at him.  Where should I make the cut?  I don’t want to leave him bleeding to death.

I reach out for his wrist and pull up the sleeve of his robe to reveal the white flesh of his arm.  I touch the knife to his skin.  My throat feels suddenly dry.

_This is no time to get squeamish.  It’s just like dissecting frogs for Potions class._

A particularly macabre potions class.

"It won’t work, you know," he says hoarsely.

I jump backwards.  He makes a lunge for the wand but I grab it just in time.

_Stun him, Hermione.  Stun him and get on with it!_

But what if he’s right?

"Why should I believe you?" I say, keeping my voice cold. My heart is still pounding - that was too close.

He coughs for a few seconds.  Glares at me, lip curled.

"Because I clearly know more about it than you do."  There’s an odd squeak in his voice that betrays his attempt to adopt his usual superior tone.

"It’s a Sanguiclavis Charm," I say, "it shouldn’t affect you at all.  So how do you know how it would affect me?"

He raises an eyebrow and looks me in the eye.  "Do you honestly believe I’ve never had it tested? I can assure you that you wouldn’t be the first to try. And the results are not generally pretty."  His nasty smile dissolves in another fit of coughing.

I shiver.  He doesn’t _sound_ like he’s lying.  Do I really want to risk it?  He must have a way to get people out if he wants to.  If only I can get him to tell me what it is.

"And do _you_ honestly expect me to believe that anyone can get in, but no one can get out?"

"Not quite anyone, Mudblood.  Just specially invited guests."

I grit my teeth and persevere.  "Who never leave? Funny the place isn’t more crowded."

He shrugs. "Leaving doesn’t generally tend to be an issue.  But I’m beginning to find your questions rather tiresome, so I’ll tell you what you want to know – not that it’ll do you any good.  You could get out with a Portkey, if you had one that was set up properly, but strangely enough I don’t happen to have one on me at the moment. Of course, if you lent me the wand I could go and fetch one for you..."

_Yeah, right._

"No?  So it rather looks as though you’re stuck."

Can I catch him out?  I try to match his offhand tone. "Unless there’s a hidden door, of course."

But he merely raises an eyebrow and says, "Sorry to disappoint you, but there isn’t.  And even if there was, I’m not sure I’d be inclined to tell you about it."

Stalemate.

"Now why don’t you end this little charade and give me back my wand, hmm?  I’ve been so amused by your little mutiny, I might not even punish you for it if you promise to be a good girl from now on."

So patronising. And so utterly unconvincing.  I know only too well now how mercurial he is.  I shudder to think what he’ll do to me... I can’t think about that. I _will_ get out.

_Stun him and get on with it._

It’s my only chance. I raise the wand. He vanishes.

He’s gone?

How...?

He must have had a Portkey after all.  If only I’d _checked._ Or maybe he can trigger that Sanguiclavis Charm to pull him out, even without a wand.

He tricked me again. Damn him to hell! I thought I was in control when I grabbed the wand, and because he _didn’t_ leave then, it never even occurred to me that he _could_.  Stupid, _stupid_ me! 

But why?  Just because he wanted to find out what I would do?  Why?  Did he just assume I didn’t know anything that could hurt him?  Was he just trying to show me I was powerless, even with the wand?

If that’s the case, he probably got more than he bargained for.  I am _not_ powerless.

 _But that’s only going to make him more vicious when he comes back…_

And he could come back at any moment.  I back up against the wall, so that I can see the whole room.

He doesn’t reappear.

My left arm is still throbbing from that hideous gouging spell he used earlier, the skin around the wound still red and hot.  I cast a cooling spell on it – it helps a little, but I wish I knew how to take the pain away…

The wand feels heavy in my hand.  His wand.  It’s a bit shorter than mine, and slightly thicker - more suited to raw power than subtle spellwork.  The end I am holding is smooth from thirty years of use.

Thirty years of _evil_.  I dread to think what this wand has done in that time.  It’s weighted down with the residue of God knows how much death, destruction and torture… I don’t like holding it, with my fingers wrapped round the place where _his_ hand has wielded it.  I don’t even like touching it, as if it’s imbued with something murky that could seep out and smother me… a Dark object if ever there was one. It should be destroyed, it should have been destroyed years ago – they should _never_ have let someone like him have a wand. I should just break it now.

But it’s the only chance I have.  When he comes back I need to Stun him before he can get me – and this time I’m not going to be so damned squeamish about taking his filthy blood.  I have to _try_ to Apparate out of here, and if, if he wasn’t lying about what the Sanguiclavis Charm would do to me… well, it can’t be any worse than what _he’ll_ do to me if I don’t get out…

There’s still no sign of him.  What’s he doing?

Trying to psyche me out again.  I’m not falling for that.  It’s time to set up a few security measures of my own.  

I pick up the knife.  It’s too small to use as a weapon, but a simple Transfiguration changes that.  I slip it under my pillow, then turn my attention to the room.

My Entrapment Jinx doesn’t hold – I’m not sure whether that’s due to that Dissipation Jinx or whether I just haven’t mastered the complex spell properly.  But my basic Alarm Charm seems fine, and I weave a layered net of Shielding spells around the bed.

They shimmer slightly as I lie there, staring out at the room.

I almost preferred the dark.  In this shadowy light I am too conscious of the walls and the ceiling closing in, restricting my movements to this claustrophobic little room, reminding me that I’m trapped here, that I can’t get out.  But in the dark... 

In the dark, there are no limits.


	4. Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione now has Lucius' wand, and a desperate determination to escape. Is she strong enough to take him on and survive?

I jolt awake to a flash of light and a banshee wail.

My Alarm-spell! I sit up, scan the room. Scrabble for the wand.

He’s standing on the opposite side of the room, behind the desk. And he’s not looking happy. He slashes down with his wand and the screeching stops.

Not his wand. My wand. The bastard is using _my_ wand.

He casts a detector spell that ripples around the room. He nods slowly, and meets my eyes through the shimmering wards. It shatters my nerves into icy shards.

“Not a bad effort, little Mudblood,” he says, lip curling. “Now, are you coming out to play, or do I have to pull you out of there?”

I watch apprehensively as he paces towards the bed, stopping just beyond the outermost protective layer. A muttered word makes the end of his wand - my wand - glow cobalt blue.

“Hmm,” he muses. He touches the blue wandtip to the edge of my ward. And a million tiny sparks pulse out across the surface of the spell, tracing its boundaries and the pattern of its interwoven strands.

He can’t quite hide his surprise. There can’t be many sixteen-year-old witches - Muggleborn or not - who can weave a Millefilum Charm.

_That’ll show you, you arrogant bigot!_

He looks down at me, raising his eyebrows. “Well, well, well,” he says. “What a pretty little spell. Do you mind if I test it?”

He walks back to the centre of the room, then whirls around.

_“CRUCIO!”_

Instinctively I fling myself aside, but the ward flares as the force of his curse flashes out along those millions of tiny pathways, and is absorbed.

It held.

I sit up, trying to hide the fear spreading like ice through my veins.

Now what? The thought of exposing myself to that kind of power... but I can’t hide behind these wards forever! I grip the wand. Somehow I have to catch him off guard.

“Hmm. It rather looks as if you didn’t quite believe in your own Charm.” He walks closer and looks at the pattern intently. “Who taught you to cast this?” 

“I taught myself.”

“By which you mean you read it in a book.”

I don’t respond. I don’t want to talk to him, I want to Stun him and get the hell out of here... if I can.

_I will._

He continues to speak, mockingly instructive. “I don’t suppose your _book_ bothered to explain how to maintain the spell once you’d cast it?”

_Oh God._

His lips curve in a predatory smile.

“Millefilum,” he says, “has the appearance of being dense, and complicated, and impenetrable. And indeed it can be - but it has one small but fatal flaw. Do you know what it is?”

Patronising git! Of course I know what it is. Millefilum _is_ impenetrable, but only as long as the caster holds the focus - as soon as I tried to dodge his attack it will have started to unravel. But that will take time, and I still have a few layers of protection behind that one...

“Yes,” he nods. “I think you do.” He holds the wand at shoulder height as he peers into the web of shimmering light. “And I think in this case, the Keythread is... here.” He jabs down into the pattern.

The light flares – and vanishes.

How did he do that? It took me half an hour to weave that spell!

What am I going to _do_? Anything I can cast, he will counter with ruthless efficiency. I’m just a half-trained Muggleborn witch - how can I hope to take on a Death Eater?

_But that’s what_ he’ll _be thinking. Use it to your advantage, Hermione. You’re not top of your year for nothing._

“Now,” he says, “If I’m not mistaken, your next excuse for a ward is keyed to the frame of the bed - you obviously weren’t confident enough to rely completely on your own willpower. Which, considering how long _that_ lasted, was evidently sensible.”

Bastard. It’s one of the most elementary principles of defence to layer different ward types - that way they can’t all be taken out by one attack. But if I can get him caught up in that overconfident sneering of his, perhaps I’ll get a chance to strike.

I put on a nervous expression. It doesn’t require much acting ability. Practising spells with the DA was one thing - actually facing a Dark wizard is quite another. It’s Ron and Harry who want to be Aurors, not me.

“Of course,” he continues, “this one is even easier to get past. A little crack to the curtain-rail will render it quite unstable.”

I _know_ that. Arrogant creep.

“However,” he tells me, “I really don’t like to damage my possessions, if it can be avoided. So why don’t you bring this little charade to an end now, hmm?”

As if he really expects me just to give in, just to preserve his _furniture_? I stare at him with all the contempt I can muster.

“Excuse me if I value my life more than your bed.”

He frowns. “If you truly value your life you’ll show a little more respect. I really won’t be happy if you force me to break something - as far as the furnishings are concerned, that is. And, unlike you, _I_ am capable of carrying out my threats.”

I glare at him, but I’m thinking hard. Perhaps this will provide the distraction I need.

“Still being stubborn?” he says. “Very well. _Nox._ ”

The room goes dark, but he can’t extinguish the light behind my wards. It’s reflected as a faint glimmer in his pale eyes.

“Ah,” he mocks, “I do like a sitting target.”

_Don’t be provoked, Hermione. He’s just made it easier for you._

He turns away. I check that I have a firm grasp of the wand. I can’t see him, but I follow the sound of his footsteps. He stops - halfway across the room, I think.

_This is it. Deep breath._

_“REDUCTO!”_ His spell flares across the room and

_“Nox. Finite. STUPEFY!”_

everything goes dark as I quench my wards and fling the hex at him with all my strength.

The curtain-rail cracks. I dive away from the bed. 

_“Verso!”_ He throws back my Stunning Spell, but I’m well out of the way.

I crouch on the floor, as still as I can, mouth open wide to breathe silently. Where is he?

“Oh, so you _do_ want to play,” he drawls. “What fun.”

_Thank you, you stupid arrogant git._

I stamp on my impulse to attack wildly – I can’t afford to get this wrong. I hold the wand steady.

_“STUPEFY!”_

_“Defendo.”_

Damn!

He’s wreathed in red flames as his counter-spell absorbs my attack. He turns towards me and I dodge away again.

_“Caedo!”_

His cutting spell hits the wall and dissipates in a grating scream.

The knife. I forgot the knife! It’s still under the pillow. Stupid, _stupid_ me!

_Forget it. It wouldn’t have done you any good anyhow. Concentrate!_

I listen carefully. My bare feet mean that I can move silently. He can’t. That _has_ to give me an advantage… His boots click against stone, over… _there._

_“STUPEFY!”_ I cast and jump aside.

_“Remitto!”_

I recognise the homing spell just in time. _“Protego!”_

The red streak rebounds.

_“Defendo.”_

The Stunning Spell is so weak by now that it barely glows in defeat.

I try to calm my breathing. He’s fast. That surprises me more than it should have.

_Well, I don’t suppose you survive ten years at Voldemort’s side for nothing..._

So why isn’t he throwing something really nasty at me? Does he really think I’m so inept that he doesn’t need to? Bastard.

_You’re_ complaining _about that? Use it to your advantage!_

How? _How?_

I _wish_ I had my own wand. It might not make much difference, but it would _feel_ cleaner.

He attacks. _“Accio Mudblood.”_

_“Protego!”_ Damn. I’m not even sure that would have worked – and now he knows where I am.

_“Strangulo!”_

_“Pro-”_

His jinx wraps around my neck with a force that knocks me to the floor. The wand rolls out of my hand.

_No! Get it_ off _me!_

I can hardly breathe. I scrabble at my throat.

But there’s nothing there.

He laughs. “Lost for words, little one?”

Bastard. My head is spinning. I can’t hold my breath much longer

How dare he do this to me with _my wand_?

The wand! I feel about for it frantically.

But the thing around my throat is getting _tighter_ …

_Protego!_ I scream in my head. _PROTEGO!_

My hand comes down on the wand. My fingers tingle as they close around it.

_PROTEGO!_

I can still only speak in my mind, but the wand gives me just enough strength to loosen the pressure... I suck in half a breath.

_“Finite,”_ I gasp.

It’s gone. I fill my lungs with cool air.

“Oh, well done, Mudblood,” he sneers. _“Petrificus!”_

_“VERSO!”_

Just in time. But I didn’t get him, either. I’d have heard him fall.

So where is he? I strain my ears to hear him breathe.

Silence.

This is hopeless. I’ll never get him.

_You have to try. There’s no_ choice _!_

But what can I _do_?

Could I use the desk for cover? I should be able to find it, I’ve spent long enough exploring this place in the dark. It’s just a metre or two that way, I think...

I take a silent step to my right. And another. And my toe makes contact with something that rolls away with a metallic clatter.

The goblet - lying where I left it after he woke up before. Why oh why didn’t I pick it up?

_“Flagello.”_

I yelp and stagger as the hex stings my leg.

_“Flagello!”_ Said with savage amusement. Bastard.

It catches my arm as I leap away. I turn and point back towards his voice.

_“Stupefy!”_

_“Defendo.”_

I can see him sneering in the red glow. “Stupefy, stupefy, stupefy. Don’t you _know_ any other spells, Mudblood?”

_I’ll give you one of your own, you smug Slytherin bastard!_

_“Serpensortia!”_

I barely keep my balance against the recoil, but it works - the sound of the snake slithering across the stone floor makes my skin crawl. I hear him suck in his breath, and I get ready to cast. If I can attack him when he goes for the snake, maybe he won’t react in time.

But his spell is not the one I’m expecting.

_“Lumos.”_

I blink. I never thought _he_ would choose to fight in the light.

He’s just in front of the opposite wall, wand up in defence position. Standing ever-so-slightly tensed, ready for movement. Expression calm. No - not calm, focused. Eyes darting in quick evaluation from me to my wand to the desk on my right to the snake on the floor between us.

The snake.

Oh my God, the snake. The long, red-and-black, thick, hissing _snake._ What on earth made me cast _that_ , of all things? I’ve managed to avoid snakes since... since _then_.

A stream of white light knocks it away towards the bed. I snap my focus back to him but his wand is back in position. No chance of getting past that. I glance at the snake. And freeze.

It’s slithering across the floor. And it’s coming towards _me._

Oh God.

His voice cuts through my horror.

“Draco tells me you’ve been working on Vanishing Spells lately,” he drawls. “So let’s see if you’re up to dealing with a snake, shall we?”

Snake. Hideous wedge-shaped head. Darting tongue. Bone-chilling hiss.

“I can handle a snake.” I look at him defiantly, but my mouth is dry.

“Really?”

_Bastard._ He could have hit me with half a dozen spells but instead he’s just standing there. Smiling darkly. Toying with me again.

But with his wand held ready. He’s not underestimating me now. And I don’t think that’s a good thing.

Neither is that creature on the floor. It’s halfway towards me. Close enough to see its scales rippling.

Vanishing spells aren’t difficult, exactly - I didn’t have too much of a problem with the mice. But they aren’t trivial, either. Especially when applied to large, angry, slithering snakes. And especially when I can’t risk letting my guard down for the time needed to cast one. But there are faster spells than Evanesco...

“Do you want me to help you? I might if you ask me _very_ nicely,” he says.

I hate him, I hate him. I am _not_ going to give up now.

I push that emotion away. It’s not anger I need now, but alert focus. Like his. Survival is the only thing that matters.

If I can distract him...

I glance at the wall to my left, at him, at the hissing snake. Angle the wand as if to strike downwards, prepared to block if he tries to strike... but he doesn’t.

“Oh, don’t worry, Mudblood,” he says. “I won’t interrupt. I can take you anytime I want.”

_Then take this, you arrogant bastard!_

I swish the wand downwards but continue the arc to point left at the wall

_“Reducto.”_

then slash back towards the snake

_“Petrificus totalus!”_

and directly at him.

_“STUPEFY!”_

The Reductor curse ricochets off the wall and hits his hastily cast Shield moments before the Stunning Spell. He staggers under the combined impact - and vanishes.

The snake is stretched rigid across the floor. I should deal with that while I have the chance-

“I suppose you thought that was clever?”

_He’s right behind me._

I spring forward, out of his reach. He laughs.

“Your Muggle instincts betray you, I’m afraid. _Impedimenta._ ”

I’m halfway across the room when the jinx throws me off my feet. As soon as I hit the floor I roll over to kneel upright. I still have his wand - but he has mine pointed straight at me.

He smiles in sickening triumph. _“Expelliarmus.”_

_“Protego!”_

But it hits me before I can complete my defence. The wand stays in my hand but his spell lifts me off my feet and slams me face down on the bed in a cloud of dust from the fallen curtains. I push myself up. His hand closes over mine.

His fingers curl around my wrist like a black-clad vice.

_No._

I prise at his fingers with my left hand, but he’s holding on too tightly... I can’t budge his hand - I need to get a better angle! I struggle forward but he shoves me down, pinning me to the bed with a hand between my shoulder-blades.

_No no no no no no no_

I reach blindly for the wand with my left hand. He draws my right hand back out of reach.

_I can’t let him win, I_ can’t!

I kick out wildly. Nothing but air  I can’t make contact. I push up against his hand on my back - but he’s heavier than me, and he has gravity on his side.

He pulls my wand hand back further with a painful wrench to my shoulder. I flail wildly with my other hand but he brings his left arm down across my shoulders so that I can hardly move under the weight. Can hardly breathe.

_No..._

I bury my face in the dusty fabric, trying to twist to lessen the pain in my shoulder.

“This really has been a most enlightening interlude, Mudblood,” he hisses into my ear.

I freeze. He’s too close. I can feel the folds of his robe draped across my back.

“But now that we’ve made clear which of us is stronger,” he continues softly, “I think it’s time we restored the proper balance of power, don’t you?”

I bite back a sob as he forces my right hand up and even further back, twisting my wrist cruelly so that even though _I have to hold on_ , I can’t maintain my grip...

He lifts his left hand from my shoulder. There’s pain shooting all down my right arm and I can’t possibly move against it.

Very slowly, very deliberately, he pulls his wand from my fingers.

He drops my hand and steps back. I roll away onto my side.

And in the same movement I dive for the pillow and my fingers close around that knife I hid hours ago. I leap up and fling myself at him.

_I’ll kill him if I have to!_

Lighting-fast, he knocks my hand aside - but not enough to stop me completely. I plunge the knife into his shoulder, hard. He yells in pain and surprise.

But mostly pain.

I pull at the knife so I can stab him again and again and again \- but he seizes my wrist and holds it there, motionless.

No! I have to make him let go! I manage to twist the knife slightly.

His eyes go wide with shock. Under my hand there’s something wet seeping through his robes.

_So the bastard bleeds like anyone else._

He grits his teeth but his fingers only tighten on my wrist. His wand falls from his other hand.

He reaches clumsily in his pocket. His face twists as he pulls my hand - and the knife - away from his shoulder. He points my wand in my face.

_“Expelliarmus.”_

I am hurled to the floor. Somewhere across the room, the knife clatters against stone. He kicks me onto my back but I barely register the pain. I stare up at him, try to back away...

He looks down with utter venom, one hand pressed to his shoulder. In the other is my wand, and it’s pointing straight at me. He grates out his words.

_“Petrificus Totalus.”_

My head snaps back as every muscle in my body goes rigid. I can’t move. _I can’t move!_ I strain to roll away from him I but I can’t even make myself twitch. Where is he? All I can see is that crazy paving on the ceiling.

He steps into view. Cold grey eyes above a mouth twisted in a horrible expression that should never be called a smile.

Those baleful eyes are the last thing I see before he disappears and everything goes dark.

But I’m conscious. If this motionless silent blackness is consciousness.

Though if I can wonder whether I’m conscious then I must be conscious, mustn’t I?

_But I can’t move!_

Of course I can’t move - he Petrified me. All I can do is think.

I wish I could _move._

_Breathe, Hermione._

But I don’t have any control over that.

_Don’t panic, don’t panic, DON’T panic..._

Is this what it was like for Neville when I did this to him? _I’m so sorry..._

_Think!_

I’ve been Petrified before - and that was his doing as well. But that was different, I can’t remember anything about it. Just that big yellow eye in the mirror, then nothing. Not even darkness.

I think it was better that way. Better not to be so acutely aware of how vulnerable I am to anything that might be down here.

But there’s nothing down here. I’ve been through that before.

Nothing except a dirty great Petrified snake, that is.

_Oh God._

I hope that Petrification spell holds. Sometimes they wear off if they aren’t done right, and I cast it so quickly...

Maybe it would be better if it did wear off. Perhaps the snake would kill me before _he_ came back. Before he can make me tell him anything else. Before he can do... whatever he’s going to do.

_Whatever he’s going to do..._ I can’t think about that. Judging by that look on his face it’ll be very, very nasty. What was he said yesterday? ‘ _I’m going to treasure every single second...’_

And I can’t even _move._

I don’t want to die. But... but if he’s going to kill me anyway wouldn’t a fast-acting venom be better than having him drag it out?

_Don’t think like that. You’re not going to die._

Like I really believe someone’s going to rescue me now?

_They might. As long as you’re still alive, there’s hope._

As long as I’m still alive, there’s pain. Better the snake than him. At least it’s not _personal_ with the snake.

But the snake is silent. I wonder if _it_ is conscious? Does it know that I am here? Is it wishing it could move? Does it still want to attack me?

I’m getting whimsical. That’s not a good sign.

And all either of us can do is wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Is this what death is like, this endless paralysed darkness?

No, this is more like purgatory. Death’s waiting room.

How long will I have to wait?

As long as he wants me to wait. He _wants_ me to be quietly freaking out down here.

That should make it easier to hang on, but it doesn’t.

And I’m starting to ache. Basilisk-Petrified people can’t feel the hardness of the floor, but the Body-Bind is different. I can feel it all right, but there’s sod all I can do about it.

Do rocks get sore from sitting in one place too long? Is that why they hitch rides with passing glaciers?

_Don’t think about things that don’t make sense!_

So what am I supposed to think about? Digging an escape tunnel? Why I ended up here? Why he hates me so much? None of it makes sense.

I need something to fix my mind on, something tangible.

Well, isn’t that going to be easy when I can’t see anything, I can’t hear anything and I can’t touch anything?

I’m hungry.

Great. Just what I need to be thinking about right now.

Maybe I could try counting my breaths.

Maybe I should just let myself float away. Maybe he wouldn’t be so bad if he could see I had nothing worth saying.

Maybe.

But that’s _me_ I’m talking about. My mind. My identity. I will _not_ give that up.

_Deep breath._

No, that doesn’t work. Wait for a breath, then.

_One..._

_Two..._

_Three..._

It’s so odd to be focusing on my breathing when I can’t affect it in any way.

_Four..._

_Five..._

_Six..._

_Seven..._

_..._

_..._

_..._

_One thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine..._

_Two thousand..._

Maybe he’s not going to come back at all.

_Just_ count _\- worrying about the future isn’t going to change it._

_Two thousand and one..._

_Two thousand and two (another palindrome)..._

_Two thousand and three..._

_..._

_..._

_..._

_Three thousand, seven hundred and ninety six..._

_Three thousand, seven hundred and-_

Something’s moving.

_Count! Three thousand, seven hundred and ninety-eight..._

But I _did_ hear something. The snake? Or...

_Three thousand, seven hundred and ninety-_

_“Lumos.”_

_No._

Yes.

He’s back. But I can’t see him.

The light hurts my eyes.

There’s a faint rustling sound, then footsteps and a clink as he picks up the knife - or the goblet?

He walks towards me - and stops. I still can’t see him.

What’s he doing? If only I could _see_ him instead of having to lie here waiting! If only I could move a muscle so that I’d know I’m not frozen up with fear!

More rustling. Picking up his wand from where he dropped it?

And now I _can_ see him, and I wish I couldn’t. He’s wearing some sort of dress robes - flowing grey silk and grey gloves to match those grey eyes that are staring down at me with none of their former viciousness but just a terrible calm that is far, far more terrifying than his anger would have been. And I literally can’t move a muscle. Can’t even look away.

And yes, he does have his wand in his hand.

He crouches beside me and trails the tip slowly down my cheek.

“Hello, little one.”

My brain is screaming at me to _move_ , to _get away Now,_ but my treacherous limbs are under his control, not mine. And there _is_ nowhere to go. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards.

“Your audacity is really rather impressive, Mudblood,” he drawls. “Or, perhaps merely rather foolish… very few people would _dare_ to attack me in such a manner. Perhaps it’s time for you to learn why.”

He’s so close I can smell him, the faint dusty scent of those robes overlain by something that is... too sweet, rich and putrid like roses and rotting grass. It makes me want to gag, but I can’t even hold my breath, of course, I just have to lie here breathing slow and steady as if he wasn’t looking down at me with that thin, cold and oh-so- _predatory_ smile.

I… I- He’s going to do something terrible, I know it, it’s written in every line on his face, and there’s nothing I can do except wait until he decides to stop talking and _act._

I _hate_ him.

He turns his wand over in his hands.

“I do hope your inept fumblings haven’t damaged this,” he says. 

He stands up, sweeping his gaze slowly along to my toes.

“So, let’s put it to the test, shall we?”

Another blood-freezing smile. Then a sudden jerk in his shoulder and _oh God oh Godohgod_ it’s like Crookshanks’ demon twin has sunk all his claws into my leg to plough furrows of blood and muscle and I want to _SCREAM_ but I can only stare up as cold sweat forces its way from every pore and my head rings with silent shrieking and paralysed shaking-

“Ah, little one, what am I going do with you?” he murmurs. He’s stopped the clawing, I realise, but oh _God_ not the pain.

He crouches beside me and rests his wand across my lips. My gaze flickers between his hand and the merciless depths of his eyes. He smiles, running the wand down over my chin, under my jaw...

“Yes, Mudblood,” he gloats, “I could do anything I liked, and you wouldn’t even be able to plead for your miserable life. So defenceless…” He draws the wandtip across my throat. “So _exposed_ …”

He stands abruptly. “But it’s not time for you to die just yet. Not when I haven’t had what I need from you.”

He stabs the wand at my chest.

_“Finite Incantatem.”_

I shudder and roll away from him, clutching at my leg and trying not to sob. There’s blood oozing through my robe and holding the wound doesn’t make the pain any less but it’s such a relief to regain even this much control. I take a deep breath – _my_ choice to breathe! 

“No. Face _me,_ Mudblood.”

I daren’t do otherwise, though I’m so stiff that every muscle I move feels like it’s been pounded with a crowbar. I curl up, fixing my eyes on the curious silver dragon motif gleaming on the heels of his boots, just inches away from my eyes. Such elegant polished boots! They should be gracing some high society ball, not this dark brutal place. How can he go out and pretend to be civilised, then come down here and… and…

I twist my head to look up at him. He gazes back, expressionless.

What’s he hiding behind that mask? W- what is he going to do…? 

_You’ve proved your point, you don’t have to..._ please _don’t_

He flicks his wrist and I’m jerked into the air. I grab for a bedpost but my limbs aren’t reacting in time and he tears me away, flinging me across the room so that I’m hovering in the empty corner. His eyes meet mine for the briefest horrible instant and then I am spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning and flailing out helplessly. There’s nothing to hold onto I feel sick I feel sick

I slam up against the ceiling, gasping for breath. His lip curls contemptuously.

“Well,” he says, eyes resting momentarily on his wand, “at least you don’t appear to have damaged it.” He looks back up at me. “You should be very, very grateful for that.”

He walks across the room so that he’s standing underneath me. I’m trying to keep my expression neutral - I have a nasty feeling that anything I say or do will provoke him into doing something even more hideous.

“It really is a pity that we can’t do this outside,” he remarks. “Draco’s told me all about how much you enjoy flying lessons.”

If he’d said something like that before, it would have been accompanied by a mocking smile. This time it isn’t - and that seems to make it all the more lethal.

“But then,” he continues, “with your background, you could never have the instinct for that.”

He flicks his wand and hurls me back against the wall.

He meets my eyes for an instant, and now he does smile. I was wrong about him looking more deadly without it.

_He’s going to drop me..._

I crash to the floor. My ankle twists in sudden sharp pain.

He rams the end of his wand against my throat and drives my head back against the wall. There’s a bolt of agony from my ankle. My back scrapes painfully against the rough stone.

He angles the wandtip upwards, digging in underneath my jaw and forcing my chin up so high that he has to step forward to look down at me. A fold of silk brushes my hand.

I should reach up, grab that wand out of his hand, away from my throat.

But I don’t. For some reason I can’t seem to move.

He just stands there for a minute, pitiless eyes boring into mine.

“Tell me,” he says at last, “was that the first time you’d used Cruciatus?”

What can I possibly say that could persuade him not to make this worse?

“Answer me!”

_Just do as he says!_

“...ess.” That strangled squeak is all I can manage with his wand impaling my throat like this.

“I thought as much. Now, would you like me to show you how to do it properly?”

_No, please, not that..._

He raises an eyebrow. “I do want to hear your answer, Mudblood.”

“n-no.”

“No? You’re happy to use it, but not to face it yourself? Typical Gryffindor. _Don’t_ go thinking you’re any better than I am.”

He steps back. I slump to the floor, swallowing painfully as I shift my weight off that ankle as gently as I can. He stands watching me, arms folded. I’m watching him, too, watching for any small signal that I could influence him. But mercy isn’t in his vocabulary.

“You know,” he says nastily, “it really is hard to resist demonstrating the pleasures of Cruciatus, when you stare at me in such a deliciously terrified manner.”

I try to wipe my fear from my face.

_But what’s the use? He_ wants _to hurt me._

“Oh, don’t worry,” he says. “Fortunately for you, I don’t have time to give that the attention it deserves. Not this evening, at least.” Another malicious smile.

Does that mean he might just go away? I hide my relief - I don’t want to give him anything to react to.

“Yes,” he muses, “I’m actually having dinner with your Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher tonight. I’m sure she’d be most interested to know that some of her students have been learning Unforgivable Curses... but you’ll forgive me if I don’t pass on your regards.”

_Umbridge?_ I know she’s evil, but... Ron’s dad keeps going on about how close the slimy bastard is to the Minister, so I shouldn’t really be surprised. But the idea of _him_ having a direct line into Hogwarts is sickening.

He laughs at the expression on my face.

“Oh, I don’t like her too much either - those petty bureaucrats can be _so_ tedious. But then, neither do I like you, but that doesn’t stop me giving you the benefit of my time.”

_Like I’m supposed to be grateful for that, or something?_

It’s almost as if he wants me to retort, as if he wants an excuse to attack me. But I’m not going to give him one.

“Oh, so my company isn’t good enough for you? Well, perhaps I could bring back one of your little friends, if I happen to run into one of them tonight?”

He’s horrible. Horrible. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

“No,” he says softly, “somehow I thought that idea wouldn’t appeal to you. Would you rather I just brought Draco for a visit? I’m sure he’d find your current predicament most amusing.”

Oh, God. I couldn’t bear the thought of _anyone_ seeing me like this, let alone the ferret...

He chuckles. “You obviously dislike that idea so much, I’m almost tempted to do it. But I think we’ll keep this just between the two of us, hmm?”

He watches me, one elegant eyebrow arched. I think the bastard wants me to reply. I hate him! As if I’d ever choose his company over anyone’s... but the idea of him watching Draco gloating over me ... I nod wordlessly, and stare at the floor.

He turns away, and stops. I look up and follow his gaze.

Oh no. I’d forgotten about the snake.

“Well, well, well,” he says. He glances back at me with a feral grin. “That poor snake can’t be very comfortable all stretched out like that, wouldn’t you agree?”

No. He wouldn’t...

“Serpents,” he continues, “are such magnificent creatures. Of course, not everyone has the intelligence to give them the appreciation they deserve, but even so... how could you treat it like this?” He shakes his head. “You really do need to learn some respect.”

_No, please don’t..._

He raises an eyebrow at me. Then he steps back a few paces, and lifts his wand.

_“Finite Incantatem.”_

In a hissing fury the snake springs into a coil and launches itself at him. And then it’s suspended in the air, writhing helplessly.

“It’s not very happy with us, is it?” he remarks, eyes gleaming. “Perhaps you ought to apologise to it.”

He floats the thing across the room towards me. I glance frantically at the bed. If only I could get hold of that length of broken curtain-rail, at least I’d have a chance of defending myself. But it’s on the other side of the room, and I’m not running anywhere with my leg in this state.

“I’d stay where you are if I were you,” he tells me. “If you distract me I might just drop your little pet, and somehow I don’t think you’d want me to do that.”

As if he’s not going to anyway? I can’t stop staring at the snake. It’s not jerking about quite so violently now, as if it’s calmed down... or as if he has some sort of control over it. It was his wand that cast the thing, after all.

And now it’s right above me, head swaying from side to side. No hissing or flickering tongue, though. It’s unnaturally quiet.

He lowers it so that it’s hovering in front of me.

I hold myself motionless. I can’t bear to look. I really hope he _can_ control it...

“You Summoned it, Mudblood. Are you telling me you’re afraid to touch it?”

I... I... 

“Or would you like me to take it away?”

I manage the tiniest of petrified nods.

“You call that an answer? How many times do I have to tell you to speak up?”

“ _... please_.”

“As you wish,” he says sarcastically. “But first I’d like to hear you apologise to it.”

He really is crazy. But I’d better do as he says. His voice is strangely thick, the strain of holding whatever spell he has on the snake, I suppose. If he loses control...

“I... I’m sorry.” I feel a little silly, talking to a semi-conscious snake, almost as if I’m apologising to _him_ , in a roundabout way.

But I’m not. And ‘I’m sorry’ would be far too trivial for that anyway.

“That wasn’t too convincing, considering the concern you show for _lesser_ creatures. Perhaps you should touch it after all - just to show how sincere you are.”

_Just do as he says_ _\- he’s never going to get rid of it if you don’t._

This is... surreal. I blot everything else out.

_It’s only a snake. Nothing like the Basilisk…_

I force myself to reach forward. My stomach feels like a whole troupe of scouts are using it for knot-tying practice. The snake is writhing almost sleepily, and I’m terrified it’ll turn on me as soon as I touch it. But it doesn’t. I run my fingers along its... back, I suppose. It’s warmer than I expected, and not slimy, as I’d have thought it would be, but not exactly not-slimy, either.

“Very good. Perhaps you did mean it after all, hmm?” He’s still speaking in an odd, distanced, tone. I hate him, him and that too-smug grin of his.

_Focus on the present. You’re alive, and he isn’t hurting you._

Yet.

“That’s enough,” he snaps.

I jerk my hand back as he flings the snake upwards, fully alive now, twisting and lunging until he hurls it against the wall so that it falls to the floor twitching. He throws it against the wall again. Again it falls, and this time it isn’t moving.

_“Evanesco!”_

It disappears. A cloud of black and red dust drifts to the floor.

I... I don’t know what to think.

“Aren’t you going to thank me?”

What? For killing it?

But didn’t I want it dead?

I didn’t want it _here_ , but...

But what I really think is not the point. It’s what he wants to hear that’s important.

He steps forward with a whisper of silk.

“Yes,” he says quietly. He brings his wand up under my chin again, so that I have to look at him. “I’d like to see some _gratitude_ , Mudblood.”

Oh, what’s the use? If I’m stuck here there’s no point in making him mad. Madder than he is already, that is.

But I’m not stuck here. Someone will get me out.

_So better still be alive when they get here, right?_

I close my eyes. “Thank you.” _You sick bastard._

I feel numb.

He presses his wand a little harder against my throat. It hurts more than it should - it must be bruising where he dug in before.

“Now, I’d like to hear that again, with your eyes open this time. If you’re going to lie, you might as well be honest about it, hmm?”

I’m not even going to try to follow that one.

_Don’t think. It’s easier not to think about it._

I open my eyes. He’s smirking. It would be so much easier if he wasn’t smirking.

I stare past him at the ceiling. I don’t want to look at his face.

“Thank you.”

And... and... the strange thing is that as I say it, I half mean it. He did get rid of that snake, after all. He could have just left it here. Even if he did... kill it, I’m, well, glad? Relieved, anyway, that it isn’t still here.

He smiles. “Very good, Mudblood. I think you’re finally starting to learn. Perhaps there’s hope for you after all.”

I keep my face blank. God, I hate him.

He walks away from me, then turns abruptly. “Oh, and I suppose you’re probably hungry. Would you like me to leave you something?”

I nod dumbly. I’m so hungry it hurts.

“Manners, Mudblood,” he snaps. “When someone puts themselves out for you, you should really show a little more appreciation.” He flicks his wand and a line of cold fire flares across my legs. I jerk away, jolting my injured ankle. That hurts even worse than his spell.

The bastard, the bastard. I hate him! What does he want me to do, anyway? Beg? I won’t!

But I _have_ to eat.

I look towards him, but keep my gaze unfocussed. “Yes, please,” I say flatly.

I thought I was beyond blushing by now, but it’s so humiliating having to _ask_.

He narrows his eyes, as if wondering whether to make me ask again, but then his lips curve in a satisfied smile. “Excellent – I’ll be happy to oblige. Don’t say I’m not good to you.” And with a sarcastic flourish, he waves his wand at the desk. A large bowl of soup appears, with a loaf of bread beside it.

“Don’t eat it all at once, now,” he smirks. And vanishes.

The room plunges into darkness.

Has he really gone?

It sounds like it. But I can’t believe he’s going to let me off that lightly, after... after what I did. Not that the snake wasn’t...

I shudder.

But he hasn’t let me off. I know that, deep down. He just wants me to sit down here fretting about what he’s going to do. While he goes and has a nice dinner with that Umbridge cow. I’m sure the two of them could have a lovely evening swapping tips on inflicting pain.

Bastard.

And… And… he’s won. I know I can’t fight him. All I can do now is try to stay alive until they rescue me.

I clench my fists.

I will be rescued. I _will_ be rescued. I will _not_ cry.

I touch my ankle carefully. It’s swelling a little, but it doesn’t seem to be broken... What are you supposed to do with sprains? I think back to the first-aid course I took a couple of summers ago. I guess I can rule out the ‘call for medical help’ option.

I can smell that bread from here, fresh and warm and so _alive_ in this dead place.

_You can wait a little longer. First things first._

I pull myself towards the bathroom, supporting my ankle as best I can. I send cold water splashing into the sink and balance on the edge of the bathtub, my injured leg stretched out in front of me with a wet towel wound round my ankle and another held against the three deep hot ragged scratches on my thigh.

My foot is painfully cold by the time the bleeding stops.

I unwrap the towel from my ankle, soak it in cold water and bind it round my foot again. I concentrate on every little movement. It’s better than thinking about, well, anything, really.

I’m hungry.

Yes, I know I’m hungry. No need to dwell on it.

I grab a dry towel off the pile and wrap it around my neck. I lift my ankle down and crawl towards the desk.

My hand touches cold metal. I freeze.

Just that damn goblet again. So it must have been the knife he took – he’s not taking any chances this time, then. I drag the goblet along with me as I manoeuvre towards the desk and climb up on the chair.

Oh, that soup smells good - a rich meaty smell mingled with the sharp scent of garlic.

_No need to worry about vampires, then._

That’s not even funny, given where I am.

I tear off a hunk of bread, dip it in and chew carefully, savouring the taste.

I only manage to eat about half of it. Hopefully I’ll be able to finish it before he comes back, but for now I need to rest my ankle... and to sleep. I haven’t slept properly since... well, sleeping properly is probably too much to ask, but sleeping at all would be good after all those hours lying rigid on the floor.

The bed is still covered by the fallen curtains. I almost heave them onto the floor, but then I pile them at the end of the bed - you’re supposed to elevate sprains, if I’m remembering it correctly.

Not that it makes much difference. He’ll probably come back tomorrow and break it properly.

I shiver. _Please God, get me out of here._

I unwrap the wet towel from my ankle and wipe the last traces of blood from my leg before throwing it on the floor. I replace it with the dry one, winding it round as tight as I can. I stand the broken pieces of curtain rail against the wall at the head of the bed. Then I lie back and pull the blankets over me.

The last time I lay here, I had a wand in my hand and wards around me... The last time I lay here, I had a chance of getting out. That seems such a long time ago now.

_You still have a chance._

Yeah, right. I don’t have a wand, I can’t walk and I’m so tired I can hardly think straight.

_So get some sleep..._

And then what?

_Don’t think about that…_

I stare up into the darkness, and slide swiftly into sleep.


	5. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone in the dark, Hermione faces an unpleasant truth. And, as she's about to find out, she still has no idea of what Lucius really wants...

There’s no light when I wake up.  No sign of _him._ Thankfully.

I sit up stiffly and unwrap the towel from my ankle.  I prod my foot carefully.  The swelling doesn’t seem to be any worse, though I still don’t want to put too much weight on it.  But the scratches on my leg are hot and sore and still weeping slightly.  I need to get to the sink and wash them again.

I swing my feet onto the floor.  And jerk them back with a stifled scream.

There’s something slimy down there!

What is it?  Is it something _he_ left? Is it going to crawl up on the bed?

I hold my breath.  I can’t _hear_ anything...

Moving as silently as I can, I reach for one of the pieces of curtain rail.

Whatever that thing is, it hasn’t moved.

I hold myself still, trying to hold back the panic.  I’m trapped here!  With this ankle, I can’t even run.

_But at least you have the stick.  You’ll be able to defend yourself._

I almost believe that.

_Maybe you could get round it while it’s still asleep.  You could lock yourself in the bathroom._

But if I tread on it…

_But you can’t just sit there waiting for it to wake up!_

I swallow. And before I can think about it too much I tap the floor to my right.

Stone. Thank God for that. Maybe I _can_ walk round it, then.  So how big is it?

_Tap._

Stone.  I reach to my left.

_Tap._

Stone.  Forward, as far as I can stretch.

_Tap._

Stone. So it must be quite small, then.  Holding my breath, I try the area just in front of me.

_Thud._

That’s it.

Silence.

It doesn’t seem to be attacking me.

So I _could_ just walk round it.

_No! You’ve got to find out what it is!  You’ll only be more scared if you don’t._

I suppose that’s true.  But that would mean _touching_ it.

I sit there, twisting the stick in my hands.

_So get down and have a closer look!_

I guess I have to.

Here goes, then…

I ease myself onto the floor near the head of the bed, and move towards the... _thing._ I sniff carefully.  Nothing.  Nothing sweet, nothing putrid - it’s unlikely to be poisonous, then.

Unlikely, but not impossible.

_Oh, come on.  As if he’s going to poison you when he still hasn’t got what he wants._

I suppose. That’s pretty much what he said, after all.

Perhaps it would be better if it _were_ poisonous.  But no.  This is just another of his stupid games.

I _hate_ the way he plays with me like this.

I don’t want to touch that thing. But what choice do I have?  I _can’t_ let him win this easily.

I reach out gingerly.

_Euck!_ I snatch my hand back.

Whatever-it-is is clammy and cold. But touching it didn’t hurt.

And it’s still not attacking me.

_So have a proper look at it!_

I move forward again.

It’s the towel I dropped. Only a towel.

_For God’s sake, Hermione, what are you doing, scaring yourself like that?  It’s not as if there isn’t enough to be afraid of already!_

I wrap my arms around my knees, shuddering.

Okay, time to get a grip.  Better wash that leg and finish off the soup, before... before he...

I crawl to the bathroom with the towels and fling them into the bath.

_Stupid to be scared of a stupid towel!_

I lean over to retrieve the dry one, wet one half of it and hold it against my scratched and swollen leg.  The coolness is a blessed relief.

But I’m hungry.  I check there’s no fresh bleeding, and crawl back to the desk.

The soup is cold, of course, but still filling.  Two bowls of soup shouldn’t be enough, really, given how long it must be since I had a proper meal, but... either there’s something weird going on with time down here, or there’s some sort of nourishing potion in the soup. 

Whatever.

There’s still some bread left.  I hide it in the bedclothes - I don’t want him to take it away when he comes back.

The dusty curtains are still piled on the bed.  I heave them onto the floor.

But he’ll go mad if he sees them there.

_Like you care what he thinks?_

Of course I care what he thinks!  I can’t afford not to!

And besides, it’s something to do, isn’t it?

I manage to fold the curtains by spreading them out on the floor and dragging the edges together.  It takes a while - they’re rather heavy, and it would be so much easier if I could stand properly.  But, as I said, it’s something to do.  I suppose I’d better go rinse out that soup bowl while I’m at it.  And the goblet.  No point in giving him the opportunity to make another barbed remark about Muggle hygiene.

Bastard.

So now what?  I sit on the floor with my back against the wall.  I don’t want to just lie in bed, and sitting on the chair at the desk reminds me of, of him. And I don’t want to think about _him_. I hate him!

I wonder what they’re learning at Hogwarts today?  Assuming it _is_ a schoolday, that is.  How are the DA getting on?  I hope Harry’s teaching everyone to be _really_ careful about not touching things...

No point in dwelling on that.

So I run through some Transfiguration theory. It’s better to keep my mind occupied with something constructive, and I don’t want to have forgotten everything if I do get out of here - _when_ I get out of here.  I do have OWLs to take this year, after all.

But I can’t seem to relate to that thought.

How can I not care about OWLs?  My whole future depends on them!

I try again: _I’ve missed so many lessons!  I’m going to be so far behind!_

That should trigger a wave of utter panic - that old nightmare brought to life, the one where I walk into the Great Hall completely unprepared for my exams.

But it doesn’t.

That doesn’t mean I don’t care.  Of course I care.  It’s just that...

_Whatever._

I’m getting hungry again, so I climb up onto the bed and nibble on the bread.  I’m feeling quite drowsy, actually.  Might as well doze a little.  It’s not as if there’s anything else to do.

.

Something moves at the edge of vision. A pale figure, blurring into shadow…

I sit up, rubbing my eyes.

It’s still dark, still silent. He’s not here.

But... I’m sure he was here.  Didn’t I just see him?

_You must have been dreaming, Hermione._

Dreaming? What would I dream about _him_ for?  It’s bad enough having to deal with him while I’m awake!

Though it looks as if I don’t have to deal with him right at the moment, thank goodness.

I wonder where he is?

Not here.  That’s a good thing.  I dread to think of what he’s going to do when he comes back.

I’m thirsty.  I try to stand up but my ankle still hurts.

Hmm, I wonder...

Could I use the broken curtain rail for support?  I think one of the pieces is about the right length.

I put the splintered end on the floor and prepare to stand.  But then I turn it the other way up.  If I blunt the splinters he’ll know what I’ve been up to, and I don’t _want_ him to know what I’ve been up to.  Not that it really matters, I suppose, but somehow it feels important to hold onto that much privacy. And besides, blunting it might make it harder to mend, and after what happened… all I can do is hang on until someone rescues me. I can’t afford to provoke him further.

Not until I get the hell out of here, that is.  _Then_ he’ll see how provocative I can be.  If the old pureblood families think they can treat us like this, it’s high time that we Muggleborns got together and started standing up for ourselves!

But for now, I just need some water.

I gulp it down, and check the scratches on my leg - the swelling has gone down a bit, I think.  I hope. I return to the bed and tear off more of the bread.  Not quite enough to be filling, but I suppose I should ration myself.  I don’t know how long he’s going to be gone, after all.

I wonder what he’s up to?

Well, I doubt he’s going to tell me, not without distorting the truth.  Anything could be happening up there.

I hope my friends are all right.  I hope someone’s looking after Crookshanks.

I guess this is how Harry felt last summer.  But at least he was safe.

Relatively safe.

Better think about something else.  Potion formulae, perhaps...

But that’s too much like cooking, and I don’t want to think about food.  I could try Arithmancy - hard to get much drier than that…

Doesn’t stop me from feeling hungry, though.  I hold out for a while, but finally I break off more of the bread.  There isn’t that much left now. I wonder when he’s going to come back?

Not that I _want_ him to come back.

But if he doesn’t?

_No such luck, Hermione.  He was away for ages the first time, remember?_

Not for this long.  It was a day and a half, I think.  And it’s been two days now.

_You don’t know how long it’s been.  God knows what’s happened to your body clock down here._

True, true... but in that case it could equally well be _longer_ than two days.  But it’s not as if I can do much about it. All I can do is wait, and revise my lessons, and hobble round the room trying not to cut myself on this stick.  Trying to occupy myself so I don’t feel so _bored._

And sleep, of course. There’s always sleep...

.

...I’m walking along a corridor... wooden floors, low ceiling, long row of panelled doors, portraits watching from either side.  It must be high up in Hogwarts castle, sixth or seventh floor at least... but I don’t recognise the place.  It’s been a long time since I’ve been lost in the school… and prefects are allowed to go anywhere, aren’t they, so why can’t I open the doors?  A white-haired witch with a thin face laughs at me from a picture...  I can see the Quidditch pitch from a window, but it’s a long way away, and I didn’t come here for Quidditch, somewhere up here there’s a library and I need to find it... and there’s carpet under my feet now, deep red rug running into the distance... and a heavy wooden chair in an alcove.  There’s a ghost in the chair, watching me come towards, towards… her. And she tells me I shouldn’t be here and I _know_ I shouldn’t be here but everyone tells me I ‘shouldn’t be here’ and they’re just keeping things for themselves, aren’t they? And she smiles and it’s, it’s the Ravenclaw ghost and she nods and says _yes dear even I never dared to open these doors_... and I don’t want to be stuck here like her waiting for them to let me in... so I walk on past portrait after portrait and a dark-haired man with Sirius’ eyes frowns and tells me _you shouldn’t be here_ and I’m fed up of hearing it... but his head falls off and the blood runs out of the painting and drips off the frame and I run, I push on through a wall of air, and he calls after me _see what you have to do to belong_... and - there’s the door! with carvings of badgers and lions and snakes that crawl over each other, and a round grille, I can see the shelves of books through the grille, and I reach out to push but the animals snap at me... and the raven at the top croaks _what will you give_ and the snake opens it’s mouth wider and wider until it’s the height of the door but there’s nothing beyond except those long, long teeth and darkness and a hard cold laugh

_You’re dreaming, Hermione!  Wake up!_

I’m covered in sweat.

I touch the wall: rough stone.  It’s pitch dark but there’s no carpeted corridor, no books, no snake - carved, Petrified or Slytherin.

I reach wildly for the stick and hobble across to the bathroom.  I splash water on my face, and have a drink.  I’m still shivering.  Sod it - I’m going to have a bath.

My leg smarts a little as I lower myself into the water. It warms me up, but I wish I could _see_ something.

But the only way that’s going to happen is if he comes back and casts _Lumos._

Where the hell is he, anyhow?

Maybe he’s just going to leave me here.  Maybe _that’s_ his revenge.

But I don’t really believe that.  I’m sure the bastard would rather _watch_ me suffer.  And I very much doubt he’s finished with his interrogation.  He’ll be back.

And I’d rather he didn’t find me in the bath when he does.  I climb out and rub myself down with a towel.

I wish Crookshanks were here, rubbing round my ankles like he did sometimes.  Just to touch another living creature…

_Better to wish_ you _were with_ Crookshanks _._

Yeah.  But I’m not.

I hunt around for the bread.  I don’t want to finish it, so I leave a tiny bit.  I’m still hungry.  And a little light-headed.

Best not to focus on that.

I lie down and trace runes in my mind, running through the first Aett and then the second… _Hagalaz for destruction and transformation, Nauthiz for need overcoming limitations, Isa for icy control, Jera for harvesting what is sown, Eihwaz for partnership…_

_No, you idiot, partnership is_ Ehwaz _!  How are you going to pass your OWL if you can’t even get those two straight!_

My head’s just too fuzzy for Ancient Runes, I guess.

I’ll try something less abstract, then. Like Charms.  I think through how it feels to have a wand in my hand, to flick it _just so_ and make a book rise into the air.

I did that once without a wand.  When I was seven and my Mum wouldn’t get her Encyclopaedia down from the high shelf in the living room.

I wonder...

Didn’t I read in _Achievements in Charming_ that it’s possible to _control_ what we all did as children?  To focus magic through the mind instead of a wand?

I sit up.  It’s not something I’ve tried - we aren’t allowed to at home, of course, and they don’t exactly encourage it at school, either - Professor Flitwick always said that it was too easy to blow things up without a wand to direct the magic, and anyway, I was more interested in mastering the more advanced charms. But, from what I read, it _is_ possible to do it with simple spells - though you need a much stronger focus without the wand to channel the power.

_So_ try _a simple spell, then. Anything’s better than sitting staring at the dark._

I envisage the motion, and, _“Lumos!”_

Nothing, except for an odd tingling along my arm and up my spine.

Perhaps, without a wand... perhaps it’s not so much the motion, but the feeling behind the motion?

I try again: _“Lumos!”_  


There’s an infinitesimal flare of light.  It worked!

And I’m definitely in the same room.  No carpet.  No portraits.  No ghosts.

Okay.  Now to try holding it for a bit longer.  Maybe I have a chance after all.

_“Lumos!”_

...and I can see round the whole room, using nothing but my own power!  _YES!_

But it’s tiring.  The light is wavering and my head hurts.  I let it go.

I’m going to have a thumping headache.

But it worked!

I’m shivering.  I feel utterly drained.  I gulp down the last bit of bread and crawl underneath the blankets...

...and I’m walking along the corridor again, where this time the carpet covers the whole width of the floor and is soooo deep that it feels like walking through treacle... but I go on past the portrait of the white-haired witch who looks down her nose at me and the chair which is empty now... so I stop to rest and I’m looking at a painting of a woman in a chair and it’s me and I look back at me and tell me I _can_ go home from here! but the passage behind me is the same as the one in front, or it goes to the same place, anyway... so I go on past the wizard whose head floats out of his picture and laughs and I struggle past because I know there’s a way out up here... I see the door but this time it’s smooth black with no carved animals and no grille and no way through just my reflection staring back at me...and beside the door is a painting that I didn’t see before of a too-familiar wizard with white-blond hair and grey eyes and faint smile that tells me that he could show me the way through if I want to get out and I back away but I can’t break his gaze and he just smiles and asks _isn’t this what you came for_ and reaches out and seizes my wrist and pulls me in...

I wake up.

_Get out of my head, you bastard!_

I can still see the image against the darkness in the room.  It’s smiling sardonically.

“Get out!” I shout into the darkness.  I cover my ears and I close my eyes and I _scream_.  Anything to block that out.  I need to wake up!  And it’s not as if anyone can hear me here.

_How do you know?  I’m sure he’d find it very amusing to hear you talking to yourself._

I grit my teeth in frustration and leap out of bed.

_Ow!_   My ankle!

I fall back across the blankets and reach for the stick.  But at least the pain cleared my head.  Now, where’s that bread?

Oh... I finished it.

Well, I can have a drink of water at least.

If he doesn’t come back soon...

My head spins as I stand up.  I lean on the stick and make my way to the bathroom.  I feel like an itinerant wizard, holding my staff, ready for a long journey.

Wizards don’t have staffs.  They have wands.  And the only long journey I could make would consist of several hundred circuits of this room.

Whatever.

Nothing to do except wait.  At this rate I’ll be mad with boredom by the time he gets back.

If he comes back.

I sit at the desk.  And yes, it does remind me of him.  The real him, not that insidious dream-him.

Bastard.

_Look, you_ can’t _worry about that dream.  Dreams never make sense anyway._

I suppose.  And it’s not all that surprising that he crept in - he _is_ the only human being I’ve seen for the last... however many days.

_Human being is not exactly how I’d put it._

Yeah, well, unfortunately he does a good enough impression to fool everyone else.

And, come to think about it, he _does_ look a bit like some of the historical figures in those old portraits at school. Not that that’s surprising, given how inbred the wizard aristocracy is - even worse than the Muggle lot. Certainly, in those grey dress robes he could have stepped straight out of one of those formal paintings.  The living embodiment of pureblood wizard society: proud, elegant, powerful - and rotten to the core.  That he’s allowed to hob-nob at the Ministry when he’s capable of doing what he’s done to me... Oh, I bet he puts on a respectable face for them, but surely they ought to be able to _tell_...?

Would it really make any difference if they did?  It’s not as if a society that condones slavery could have any morals to speak of.  I should have realised that when they bowed down to him over Buckbeak even after what he’d done in second year.

_Well, perhaps they didn’t know about that._

But what if they did? They still fired him from the governors’ board, didn’t they?

_Oh come on, it’s not as if things are that much better in the Muggle world.  And there are plenty of_ good _wizards.  Look at Mr Weasley, or Professor Dumbledore._

Yes, just look at them.  They couldn’t even guard Harry properly last summer, and they’ve not exactly done anything to rescue me yet, have they?  So much for all that stuff they told my parents when I got my first letter. ‘Don’t worry about a thing.  We’ll look after her.’

_And since when did Hermione Granger want ‘looking after’?_

I wouldn’t say no to it right now if it got me out of here...

But either they don’t care, or they really don’t know where I am.  Or they know but they can’t do anything.

I shiver.

Professor McGonagall wouldn’t leave me here if she could get me out.  I know that.

Professor McGonagall wouldn’t sit around waiting to be rescued, either.  I am _not_ helpless.  I can’t wait to see that bastard’s face when he finds out I can do wandless magic.

_Like ‘Lumos’ is such a threat._

Well, I have to start somewhere, don’t I? And if I’m to have any hope of using it, I have to practice.  So...

_“Lumos.”_

But I only get the faintest phosphorescent glow.  And I can’t hold it.  And my head is throbbing.  Either one of his warding spells is absorbing the power, or I’m just too weak.  Or hungry.  Or tired.  Still drowsy, at least...

.

I don’t know how long I’ve slept for.  I don’t feel all that refreshed.  My leg is hurting again. And I’m ravenously hungry.

Nothing much I can do about that.  At least I didn’t dream about _him_ that time.  Not so that I can remember, anyhow.

What’s he up to?

Why doesn’t he come back?

_You_ want _him to come back?_

Of course not.  But... what if something’s happened to him?

_Well, that would be a good thing, wouldn’t it?  It might mean they’ve arrested him. Maybe they’re on their way now to rescue you._

It might mean he’s lying dead somewhere.

_At least then he wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone else._

But I don’t want to die here!

_Like he isn’t going to kill you anyway?_

But it’s so _unfair!_

_So what happened to Cedric was ‘fair’?_

Oh God, of course it wasn’t.  Of course I can’t claim the right to a better deal than he got.

_But given the choice, you’d rather stay alive._

Of course I would! Who wouldn’t?

_And_ that _is a statement worthy of Voldemort._

What?  That’s completely different! I just want to live my life - I don’t want to kill anyone!

_But if your staying alive depends on him staying alive, doesn’t that amount to the same thing?_

It’s hardly my fault that he does what he does!  And anyhow, it’s not as if I have much of a say in what happens to him out there.

_But if you did...?_

I can’t think about this anymore.  I haven’t eaten properly for days - how am I supposed to think straight?  I’ve got better things to do than lie here and argue with myself.

_Could have fooled me._

I’m going to get some water, and then I’m going back to sleep.

_Whatever._

.

_Still dark._

Of course it’s still dark.  He’s not going to come back.  He’s just going to leave me down here.

_If he’s really not coming back..._

No.  I don’t want to die.  Where is he?

_Stupid question.  Probably up in his sodding manor house, having a party._

I’ll just go back to sleep, then.

_No!  You need to get up!_

Why? I need to conserve my energy, don’t I?  And I’m really tired.

_You need to drink something!  Get up!_

Oh, all right...

.

I heard something. He’s out there.

Or… maybe it’s Professor McGonagall come to fetch me…

I’m going home!

No... I was just imagining it.

Or dreaming…

Imagining.

Dreaming would be better.

I’m awake.  I’m sure I’m awake.

What’s the point in that?

Better... just to... sleep....

.

I stare groggily at the wall. I can hardly focus on the edges of the stones.

_I can see the wall._

That means it’s not dark.  Which means I’m not alone.  I roll over onto my back.

It’s him.

I close my eyes.  What did I expect?  The massed ranks of the Order of the Phoenix, riding in on a blaze of glory?

But... at least it’s someone, even if it _is_ him. I probably shouldn’t feel relieved, but I do.

I open my eyes again.  He’s standing quietly beside the bed.  He looks almost... worried.

Worried?  Him?  Yeah, right.  I must be delirious.  Or dreaming again.

I close my eyes.

“I think you can get up now, Mudblood,” he says.

Oh, that’s original.  And not very dreamlike.  But at least he’s not sounding angry.

I open my eyes and sit up.  And almost fall back again.  My head is spinning.

He frowns... but unless I’m completely out of it he still seems to be more concerned than annoyed.  Then he sees me watching, and glares.

“Getting up generally involves getting out of bed,” he snaps.  “So get on with it. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

Did I really say I was _relieved_ to see the bastard?

And where the hell has he been, anyway?

I put my feet on the floor.  He’s less than a metre away from me, but I’m too dizzy to care about that.  I reach out for the stick.  Then I remember and put my hand on the bedpost instead.  I don’t want him to know that I was misusing his curtain rail...

I glance up at him.  He’s looking down at me, one eyebrow slightly raised.

Whatever.

I pull myself upright and stand, swaying a little.  I cling to the post for support.  I look at him, but I can’t quite focus.  Not that I really want to.  He’s gone back to black, is about all that registers.  Black robes.  Black gloves, with imperious black fingers pointing at the chair beside the desk…

I don’t have the energy even for passive resistance.  I take a deep breath and limp across the room.  I manage to do it without falling over, though I come close to it a couple of times.

He follows me, and leans against the desk.  He’s produced a flask from somewhere, and he pours a golden potion into the goblet.  He holds it out to me wordlessly.

At least it’s not Probitaserum.  It doesn’t look or smell like anything else I’ve ever seen, either.

“Don’t be stubborn, Mudblood.  You know you don’t have any choice in the end.”

I really _shouldn’t_ have been relieved to see him.

I reach out and take it.  It’s surprisingly heavy.

Oh, what’s the use?

I take a sip.  It’s slightly bitter, but certainly not the foulest potion I’ve ever tasted.  I swallow another mouthful.  I’m not sure how much I can drink at once.

But actually, that gnawing pain in my stomach seems to have lessened a little.

“All of it, Mudblood.  I don’t have all day.”

_Give me a chance, you arrogant git._

I drink it down, as slowly as I dare.  He takes the goblet from me.

“Better?”

Actually, I do feel better.  The dizzy feeling has gone. I feel more alert - and less hungry.  I don’t exactly feel full, either, but it’s definitely an improvement.  I nod.

“Good.  You’re no use to me if you can’t think straight.”

That doesn’t sound good.

He walks back towards the bed.  I turn in the chair to watch him.  He sniffs fastidiously.

“It’s starting to smell in here.  I think you’ve been spending too much time lying in bed.  It’s really not an appealing habit.”

So what did he _expect_ me to do?

_Exactly that, probably.  You know what he’s like._

Yes. Only too well. Bastard.

He flicks his wand and a new pile of sheets, towels and blankets appears on the bed.  “I normally leave such things to house-elves,” he says, “but then I don’t suppose _you_ will object to saving them some work. By the next time I come here, you will have changed the bed.  And I expect to find it a lot tidier than it was today.”

He looks down at the neatly folded curtains and the pieces of curtain-rail leaning against the wall.  He glances back at me, almost approvingly.  I feel myself relax slightly.

Not that I _wanted_ his approval.

He looks up at the gap where the rail was and mutters a few words.  Within a couple of seconds the broken rails have snapped back into place and the curtains are hanging there as if they’d never fallen in the first place.

I turn away and stare miserably at the desk.  How long was I struggling with those curtains?  I don’t have a chance. I can hardly even walk across the room, and he had the power to fix everything with a twitch of his little finger.

_Come off it, Hermione.  You know that’s not fair._

And he’s standing in front of me again.

“Don’t imagine for one moment that you’ve heard the last of this,” he says quietly. “I warned you not to force me to break anything.  And you have a lot more than that to answer for.”

I _really_ shouldn’t have been relieved to see him.

He looks at me carefully, inspecting my unruly hair, wary expression, slept-in robe, bare toes.  I stare at the wall behind the desk, shifting my weight to sit up straighter, and try not to blush.

He points at my sore leg.

“Let me see that.”

What?  Why?  Didn’t he do enough damage the first time round?

But, as he said, it’s not as if I have a lot of choice in the end. I lift my foot up onto the desk.

He wrinkles his nose in distaste, but prods at firmly at my ankle with the tip of his wand.  I bite my lip against the pain.  He holds his wand over my leg and mutters something under his breath. A pulsing white glow wraps around it, and he peers in carefully.  I watch, gripping the arms of the chair, but I can’t quite see what he’s doing.  At least it doesn’t hurt.

He waves away the glow. “Try that.”

I touch my leg where he scratched me - the pain and that unnatural heat are completely gone. I place my foot on the floor and get up cautiously.  It doesn’t _seem_ to hurt.  At all.

“Stand up properly!” he snaps.  “Don’t you trust me?”

Trust? _Trust?_

_Oh yeah, I trust you all right.  Trust you to do the most vile thing you can..._

His eyes narrow.  He frowns.

“Thank you,” I say hurriedly.

Well, he _did_ fix my ankle, for whatever reason of his own.  And I can do without another lecture about my lack of gratitude every time he solves a problem that he caused in the first place.

He nods curtly.  “We wouldn’t want you to have trouble walking, would we?”

I wouldn’t.  I can’t imagine why he would care either way.  Should I be worried about that?

“You can sit down now.”>

As soon as I do, he points his wand at me - and I lose the ability to move. Not Petrified, just a complete lack of control over my limbs.  I literally can’t lift a finger.

He smiles.  “You have a problem, Mudblood?”

Bastard.  I find that I do have control over my mouth.  I reply through gritted teeth.

“I seem to be having a little trouble walking.”

He smirks.  “Yes, well, you would, wouldn’t you?  Perhaps I can take your mind off that.”  He reaches into the folds of his robes, and brings out a knife.

A large knife.  A horribly familiar looking knife.

He laughs.

“You know, I get the distinct impression that you’re more afraid of this than the wand.”

He holds it up in front of my face.  Definitely the same knife...  

“Foolish of you,” he continues, “when a wand can do everything this can do, and so much more.  But it’s a common Mudblood phobia - even when they’ve lived among wizards for forty years, that reaction gives them away every time.  Though even I have to admit that the blade has a certain... aesthetic.”

He has the tip of the knife under my chin now, too close for me to watch.  But I can feel the fabric of the robe shifting as he pulls down on its wide neck.  And I can feel that pinprick of cold steel just below my right shoulder.

“Yes,” he breathes, “I think it went in just about... here.”

He pushes a little harder. There’s a sick fear rising from the pit of my stomach.  But it can’t hurt worse than what he’s done to me already.  Can it?  I swallow.

He lifts my chin with one gloved finger.  There’s a hideous light in his eyes.

“Ah yes, Mudblood,” he gloats.  “Revenge is so sweet - don’t you agree?”

There’s a sharp sting in my shoulder.  I resist the urge to jerk my head away. I can’t move my limbs and there’s nothing whatsoever I can do to stop him.

“Should I continue, little one? Would you scream loudly for me?”

_Just get on with it if you’re going to do it, you sick bastard!_

But he just smiles his twisted smile and pulls the knife away.  He holds it up in front of my face.  The tip is tinged with red.

I shudder.

“Ah well, that’s another little pleasure we have to look forward to, hmm?  But not tonight, much as I regret that.  We don’t have time to deal with that kind of mess just now.”

He steps back and places the knife on the desk.

“So.  Did you miss me, these last few days?”

Miss him?  _Miss_ him?  Of course I didn’t ‘miss’ him! I couldn’t help wondering where the bastard had got to, but that’s different.

“Don’t worry, Mudblood,” he says softly. “I won’t make you answer that one.”  There’s a smile playing round his lips.  A smile I’d love to wipe off his face.

I challenge him. “Did you miss me, then?”

What on earth made me say that?

He just grins broadly, leaning back and folding his arms.  His gaze floats down from my head to my... toes, and sweeps back up to meet mine.

“Of course I missed you, little one.  How could I not?”

I look away.

“I wasn’t actually intending to be away for quite so long,” he continues.  “But some of your idiot teachers seem to have come to the conclusion that I knew something about your sudden disappearance.”

I snap my head back to stare at him, eyes narrowed.  Could he be telling the truth?

He laughs.  “Oh, you needn’t get your hopes up - I don’t think anyone will suggest such a thing again.  I can’t abide that kind of slander.  And neither can the Minister.  Why, the very idea is preposterous!”

_But if the Order knows..._

“Nevertheless,” he tells me, “I did of course offer to let them come and search the Manor.  Needless to say they didn’t find anything.  Nor will they.”

I look down - I’m not sure I’ll be able to hide my desperation otherwise.  But I will _not_ give up hope!

“Yes, Mudblood, you’re quite safe here for the moment,” he says.  “As long as you learn to co-operate, that is.  And as long as nobody else out there starts jumping to stupid conclusions.  I have no intention of - as you so charmingly put it - ‘rotting in Azkaban’, but I assure you that _if_ that should ever come to pass, I very much doubt I’ll be inclined to tell anyone where _you_ are.  You do understand what that means, don’t you?”

I worked that one out on my own.  And it’s not something I want to dwell on.

“Look at me.”

I take in those long-fingered hands resting on the elegantly cut robes; that thin face framed by impeccably groomed hair; the chalk-white skin and sardonic smile; the hard eyes that are the only clue to the depths of cruelty behind that sickeningly smooth façade. And while he has me trapped here, my survival depends on his.

But there’s more than that behind his meticulous mask. An indefinable aura of power... If anyone can survive, it’s him, surely?  That should not bring me hope, but some part of me clings to it fiercely.

_But if I ever get out of here, we’ll see whose life depends on whom..._

He smiles lazily.  “So, now that we understand each other a little better, I think we have some catching up to do.” He holds up a small vial.  The liquid inside is colourless.

Veritaserum.

Well, I knew it would come to this, didn’t I?  Why didn’t I just Obliviate myself when I had the chance?  I should have known it was hopeless.

“Ah, so you recognise it,” he grins.  “I wouldn’t have expected anything less.”

He removes the stopper.

At least the Order will have had enough time by now to protect themselves against anything I can tell him.  But do they know how much we saw?

“I hope you found the Probitaserum as... enlightening as I did,” he smirks.  “But I’m afraid we’ll have to resort to the less entertaining method, now that we no longer have the luxury of time.  I wouldn’t want you to think I wasn’t interested in what you have to say.”

Why is he so concerned about time all of a sudden?  It’s not as if I’m going anywhere.  Unless... unless he thinks the Order is about to rescue me after all?  If I can just hang on a little longer...

He lifts the vial. “Open wide.”

_Bastard._ How many times have I heard Mum or Dad saying that? I shut my mouth tightly.

He frowns, passes the vial to his left hand, and reaches behind him for the knife.

“Now, as I was _saying_ ,” he says softly, “I really don’t have time for that attitude of yours today.”

He touches the knife to my left temple and slowly draws it down my cheek.  Not a deep cut, it can’t be, but it _hurts_ and it takes all my self-control not to squirm.  If his hand slips...

_If he chooses to let his hand slip..._

I open my mouth.

“Good girl.”  He shifts the knife to his left hand, taking back the vial in his right.  “Now stick out your tongue.”

I do as he says.  It feels like a twisted parody of the Catholic girls down the road, taking their Holy Communion.  But instead of the Truth and the Light, I get Veritaserum and... _him._

I close my eyes.

“No, do watch,” he murmurs.

I feel the cold metal of the knife, flat against my right cheek.  I open my eyes.

_I hate you._

But that almost makes it worse, because there is nothing I can do but watch him as he smiles triumphantly and tilts the vial to shake three drops onto my tongue.  And then there is no more room for hate or fear or despair as the numbness seeps through my body and mind.

“You didn’t _really_ think you were going to hold out, did you?”  His voice seems very far away.

“No.”  An echo of protest dies inside.

“No,” he repeats.  “Perhaps you should remember that next time.”

He wanted that answer for me, not for him.   _I hate him_ but the resentment fizzles out... it’s too much effort to follow it.

“Now,” he says, “I want a detailed description of everyone you saw when you stayed at Twelve, Grimmauld Place.”

And I tell him.  Names when I know them, physical descriptions when I don’t.  I barely register his satisfaction when I mention Professor Snape, but he makes me repeat every word I heard him say.  I didn’t know I remembered that much - not to mention little details like the frayed edges of a robe or the scorch-mark on a witch’s cloak.  What else have I forgotten I knew?

Much, much more than I thought.  I’m exhausted by the time he lets me stop.

He removes his immobilising spell and leaves me in the dark with a bowl of soup.  It doesn’t taste of much, but I eat it anyway.

.

I’m already awake when he returns.  He makes me sit paralysed in the chair again - this time he’s not taking any chances.  Again he holds the flat of the knife against my cheek as he drips Veritaserum into my mouth.  But I wasn’t going to resist anyway.  He’s right - there’s nothing I can do.  And I told him everything I knew yesterday.

But he soon proves me wrong there.

“Do you remember,” he begins, “that I mentioned I was dining with Dolores Umbridge last week?”

“Yes.”

He smiles at my prompt and involuntary response.  My indignation dies in the void left by this potion that stifles my feelings and my will and my ability to resist.

“She was just as tedious as I anticipated,” he continues, “but she did have one or two interesting things to say.  According to her, there are students at Hogwarts who - for some unfathomable reason - don’t put their trust in the Ministry’s protection. Apparently, a handful of them have even decided to teach themselves unauthorised spells.”

_Oh God. He knows about the DA…_

He laughs. “Why do I get the impression that this isn’t news to you? And you were supposed to be a prefect, too - even a Mudblood should know that means _enforcing_ the rules.  But it’s a little late for that, now, isn’t it? So you’d better just tell me who was involved.”

I reel off a deadpan list of names.

Itching boils erupt across my face.

That jinx of mine worked, then.  Fat lot of good it does me now.  I should have worked in some sort of alarm for the others.

He stares in astonishment, then smiles with something almost resembling delight.

“Well, well, well. Did you do that?”

“Yes.”

I look down, shaking my head so my hair falls across my cheeks.  I hate to think what it looks like, and I didn’t realise it would _itch_ so much.  It’s probably just as well I can’t lift my hands to scratch.

He lifts my chin and peers at the marks closely.

“Very interesting, Mudblood.  I wouldn’t say it’s an improvement, but you have to admit it’s rather appropriate.  I see no reason to hide your handiwork.”  He tucks my hair behind my ears.

The Veritaserum takes the edge off my humiliation - and it’s not as if I care what he thinks of how I look - but still, if I could lift my hands to hide what’s written on my face, I would.  I’m not a sneak.  It shouldn’t count when it’s forced out of you.

“So is _that_ the sort of thing you were teaching each other?”

“No.”

“Well then, what _have_ you been practising?”

So I tell him what we learned, and where we met, and how we communicated.  It doesn’t take long.  When he hears about my Protean Charm, he raises an eyebrow and tells me to list all the spells I’ve taught myself.  That takes a lot longer.  And he seems rather more attentive.  I don’t know why, and under the influence of the potion I can’t summon up enough interest to care.

At last he releases me, and watches while I eat a bowl of soup - spiced pumpkin, this time.  I’m starting to get a craving for fresh fruit, but I’m not about to ask him for it.

Then he goes, and I collapse exhausted on the bed.  Now that the potion has worn off, the itching is worse than ever.  I bury my face in the pillow.  It takes all my willpower to stop myself from scratching.

They _are_ going to rescue me.  I just need to hang on for a bit longer…

On the third day he asks me about Harry.  I tell him... well, anything is more than I’d _choose_ to say, isn’t it?  Of course I don’t want to tell him how Harry recognised him in the graveyard, of course I don’t want him to know that Harry saw him in that Dark Arts shop - but more than that… the moment Harry and Ron arrived to save me from that troll, the way they felt about falling out with each other last year, the things Harry never says about his parents… those things are _private._ I do my best to clear my mind, to _not know_ , but in the end I can’t hide anything he asks about, of course.

_I’m so sorry, Harry._

The day after that, he lets me sit free of the paralysing spell.  It doesn’t make any practical difference.  I let him give me the potion, and then he asks about Ron and his family.  Ron… all our stupid bickering seems doubly petty when seen through the flat lens of Veritaserum, and when he smiles his disdainful smile and asks me _exactly_ how close we are… my hatred dives to new and bitter depths.

And then he has me describe The Burrow in such detail he could probably draw a floor plan.

After he leaves, and the potion’s deadening effect recedes to allow me my voice and my feelings and my shame, I vow from the depths of my soul that I will have my revenge for that invasion. What have those things got to do with _him_?  What does he care about how I feel about my friends? I will make him regret he asked those questions, once I get out of here.

And I _will_ get out of here.  I _will_ see Ron again.

On the fifth day I have to describe our fights with his nasty little son.  It’s a long session.  And afterwards... I don’t want to think about it.  I don’t really feel what he does, anyway - at least, not until the potion wears off. I didn’t know that Flagellation Hexes could draw blood.  I didn’t know it was possible to hear a spell crack bone and give no reaction beyond a toneless recitation of how the pain gets worse as he pushes my arm... I’m not going to think about it, I’m not going to think about it...  I don’t think he approves of the Polyjuice incident.  Or the time I slapped the stupid prat.

He mends the bone - I’ve no idea why he bothers, unless he just wants to hear me thank him for it - but he doesn’t leave me any food this time. The way I feel, I’d probably be too sick to eat it anyway.

On the sixth day he orders me to talk about Muggles - not the sort of eager interrogation that Mr Weasley revelled in, but incisive questions about communications, weapons... and, oddly, orphanages. That world seems as distant as his relentless voice, but I tell him all I can. It seems a bit pointless - it’s obvious he doesn’t understand, and I tell him that as well when he snidely asks why I can’t even explain my own world. He soon makes me wish I hadn’t.

And on the seventh day...

When he Apparates I’ve been up for hours, running through the Elder Futhark.  One look at him wipes the runes from my mind.

He’s wearing black, as usual, but the robe is plain, heavy and hooded.

A Death Eater’s robe.

It doesn’t mean anything.  It’s not as if he needs to hide what he is from me, not now.

I walk towards the chair, wondering what he’s going to wring from me this time.  Not that wondering will change anything.

“Stop.”

I freeze, and glance over at him.  He’s almost on his toes, his weight is so far forward. That tension is a stark contrast to his lazy smile.

_It doesn’t mean anything._

He looks me up and down, and then paces around me.  I feel the hairs rising on the back of my neck.

_What’s he doing?_

There’s never been a good answer to that question.  And there’s never been anything I could do about it, either.  My mouth is suddenly very dry.

He steps closer.  I squash my urge to back away.  He’s peering at those horrible spots again.  Some of them are weeping slightly - it’s so hard not to scratch.

“I think I’ve put up with these for long enough,” he says, “and I’m sure you have.  Will you let me get rid of them?”

It’s not a rhetorical question.  It was me who set the jinx, so removing it is a lot easier with my consent.  And I don’t think he’ll be able to trace the link through to the others - though as he already knows who they are it doesn’t make much difference.

I nod.  He raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, please,” I say wearily, hating him.

His concentration deepens all the little lines that spread from the corner of his eyes.

_“Finite.”_

It takes a minute for the itching to stop.  And _God_ it’s a relief…

“That’s much more agreeable,” he says.  “Now, if you go and wash, we can get started.”

Get started on _what_ , I wonder, as the water splashes into the sink.  Somehow I don’t think I really want to find out.  But somehow I don’t think I’m going to get any choice in the matter.

No. There’s still time for the Order to get me out of here.

_But if you’re coming, please do it soon!_

There’s a mirror over the sink, set in a heavy wooden frame.  I’ve not really looked in it before.  My reflection is not a pretty sight.  There’s no sign of those spots, but that knife has left an ugly thin scar down the left side of my face, and my hair is as wild as it’s ever been.  And I look pale, washed out.  This robe probably doesn’t help - Lavender was always saying that black’s not my colour.

I run my wet fingers through my hair.  I could almost pretend that it makes a difference... but what do I care anyhow?  It’s not as if he’s likely to treat me any better if I’m more presentable. Still, there’s something unsettling about the idea of facing him _knowing_ that I look as if I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.  I don’t need to give him something else to be nasty about.

But it’s what’s inside that counts.  He’s a prime example of that.

I turn from the mirror, leave the bathroom - and stop, clinging to the doorknob.  He’s standing haughtily in the middle of the room, beckoning me over.  I can’t bring myself to go a step closer to him - but on the other hand, if I don’t do what he wants...  I force myself to move.

There’s a small wad of black silk in his left hand.

He unfolds it carefully.  Inside is a small silver ring, deeply engraved with crooked runes that I don’t recognise.  He holds it out between his thumb and forefinger.

I take a step backwards.  I do _not_ want to touch that thing. The metal is bright against his black gloves, but there’s something about the way those runes twist that is inexplicably _Dark._

“You don’t have to be quite so nervous,” he says, but this close I can see a malevolent glint in his eyes that contradicts his words.  “After the last few days I’d have thought you’d be in the mood for something a little different.  I know I am.”  At that he grins.

_What’s he going to do?_

I’ve read quite a bit about magical objects, of course, but there are so many types that often even the experts can’t tell what they do without running a whole load of diagnostic spells.  And the only test I’m in a position to make is the one every instinct is telling me to avoid.

Though even if I knew what it was, would it help me?

He raises an eyebrow and gives me a patronising smile.

Bastard.  He’s not going to intimidate me that easily.  I mirror the look as best I can.  Underneath I can feel my heart thumping.

The smile fades to a slight frown.  “Take it.”

There’s an edge in his voice that I cannot refuse.  Whatever that ring does, he can do far worse without using it.  He’s proved that often enough.

I force myself to reach out for it.  He lifts it away.

“Hold out your hand.”

I glance up at his face, but it’s unreadable.  I do as he says.

He drops the ring into my palm.

My stomach lurches. The room dissolves around me.

And I’m spinning, spinning into darkness…


	6. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius' Portkey lands Hermione in an unexpected place. Will it give her rescuers a chance to act before he can carry out his plans?

It’s painfully bright, and oh, so cold.

Too bright.  The light hurts my eyes.  I close them tight and wrap my arms around myself, shivering.

Where am I?  What’s he done to me?

There’s a sharp leafy scent in the air that’s vaguely familiar, like an old graveyard.

_But you’re not dead. Your head wouldn’t hurt so much if you were dead._

And neither would my wrist.  I must have fallen on it when I landed on this... grass.

_Grass?_

I’m outside!

I open my eyes a fraction.  It’s so _bright._ Everything glitters with frost. __

I close my eyes again, but not before I’ve taken in the ivy-covered statue of an elegant woman on my right and a tall green hedge over to my left.  The hedge _could_ be the edge of a churchyard, I suppose - but it looks more like a maze with hedged walls, like the one at Hampton Court they took us to in Primary School.

At least, I hope it’s like the one at Hampton Court, and not like the one on the Quidditch pitch last summer.

I take a deep breath of cold clean air, alive with the smell of grass and soil.  So different from that sterile place he entombed me in… I place my hands flat on the frozen ground.  The rich earthiness brings tears to my eyes. __

_Get a grip, Hermione.  You’ll freeze if you just sit there!_

I peer around quickly, but there’s nothing moving on the flat frosty lawn, and I can’t see beyond it – there’s a high stone wall behind me, in front of me is a dark wood, and to the right the ground slopes off so that all I can see is sky.  Whatever this place is, it seems civilised enough.  But then lots of people think that about _him_ , too.

Am I free?  Has the Order scared him into letting me go?

I wish I could believe that.

So what does he want me to do?  Other than sitting here freezing to death, that is.  Or waiting for something nasty to come after me.

It’s so _cold_ out here. I rub my arms in a futile effort to keep warm.

_You should run for it now, while you have the chance._

On the other hand, if that’s what he wants me to do, it’s probably precisely what I _don’t_ want to do.

But if the Order is watching – and they _have_ to be watching, he _told_ me they’re watching him – I need to move, to let them know I’m here, out in the open.  Where they can rescue me.

In the open.  I feel so exposed, as if the wide blue sky is pressing down on me…  It almost feels safer crouching in the shadow of the statue.

It’s quite a long shadow - it must be late in the afternoon.  The ring is lying next to it, glinting in the grass a couple of metres away from me.  For some reason the silver band seems less bright out here, even with the sun shining off it like that.

I wonder if I should pick it up?  Perhaps it might come in useful.

_Oh, come off it Hermione.  What do you think this is - one of those stupid computer games?_

Yeah, right, I can just imagine it - collect the magical artefacts, find a convenient stash of weapons, battle the monsters, and if you die one too many times, back to the edge of the maze with you.  It doesn’t work like that here.  Here the dead stay dead, and the dragons are real.  As are the dungeons.

_Not to mention the evil magical objects.  How do you know that ring isn’t just making you see this inside your head?_

I don’t... but even if this _is_ all an illusion, it’s so good to be able to breathe fresh air! I’m going to freeze if I just sit here, though.  My feet are going numb already.

I _will_ have a better look at that ring.  I crouch down on my hands and knees to peer at it more closely.

But a booted foot comes down on it.

I flinch away. He presses the toe of his boot up against my throat.

“Crawling in the dirt?” he sneers.  “Well, I suppose that _is_ your natural habitat.”

_I hate you.  One day I’ll show you how much I hate you..._

I move back onto my knees, glaring up at him - but the sun is in my eyes and it’s far too bright.  I look down at the ground, rubbing my eyes.

He laughs.  “Well, well, well.  It rather looks as though my pet Mudblood has become a creature of the dark.”

 _Bastard!_   I’m not _his_ anything!  I am Hermione Granger and I am _not_ going to just sit here and take that!

I push myself to my feet and glance around.

He catches my chin and pulls my head round to face him. The sun is directly behind him, leaving his face in shadow but shining though his hair like some travesty of a halo.

“Now, I do hope you’re not going to get all excitable just because we’ve had a change of scene.  The same rules apply, Mudblood.  As do the consequences of breaking them.”

Every word hangs as a cloud in the frozen air. It’s weird, being out here with him.  It’s harder to nod my compliance when I’m standing in sunlight beneath the sky.  It makes me feel my shame much more clearly, as if someone’s going to come along any minute and see how I’m letting him boss me around. And he knows it, I can tell from the way he’s holding me and watching me, even if I can’t see his exact expression.

Is that why he brought me here?  I hate him!

But... if someone did come along... we’re _outside_!  He can’t hide me here!  If the Order knows where I am...

“You’re cold.”

_Oh, ten out of ten for observation._

“Of course I’m cold!”

He lets go of my chin but suddenly his wand is aiming straight between my eyes.  I take a step backwards.

“You watch your mouth, Mudblood.”

He jerks his wand to the side and the Flagellus hex cracks across my cheek.  I blink away tears.  He’s looking at me with his head slightly tilted, as if daring me to reply.  I stare back at him, but I’m not giving him a reason to do that again.

After a minute he moves the wand to point at my heart.  Now it’s not just the air temperature that’s making me cold.

He smirks.  “Now, if you were a good girl, you’d have nothing to worry about, would you?”

_And if I believed that, I’d believe anything._

“But as you aren’t… what would you say to another little flying lesson?”

Oh _God…_ How high did he throw those poor people at the campsite last summer?  And it’s not just the height, it’s… it’s the _space._ Being surrounded by nothing but air…

“Hmm, I don’t think you like the sound of that at all, do you?  Of course, without that ceiling in the way I could show you what it’s _really_ like to fly…”

_I hate you._

I feel sick.

He laughs.  “Ah, such a pity we don’t have time for that. _Warme.”_

And it’s as if there’s a glow spreading from my heart up to the top of my head and down to the tips of my toes.  I hadn’t realised I was holding myself so tense against the cold: now I feel as if I’m melting.  Even the icy fear in my stomach is thawing.

“Is that a little more comfortable?” he asks.

“Yes,” I reply.

“Thank you,” I add quickly.

He chuckles.  “Good.”

Bending down, he picks up the ring, wraps it, and hides it in a fold of his robe.  “Now, I think it’s time for you and I to take a little walk.”

He points his wand at the ground.

_“Viaturris.”_

The ground sort of shivers and a sandy path rolls out in front of us like a carpet.  I blink. It looks as if it’s been there forever, but there was no sign of it before, I’m sure there wasn’t. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by things like this any more, not after four years at Hogwarts, but suddenly I really wish I was in a place where things didn’t pop out of nowhere in defiance of all laws of physics.

But I’m not.

At that moment, a shadow flits across the grass. Something flying between me and the sun?  I look up in sudden hope - they _have_ been watching!  They _are_ going rescue me!

But it’s just a bird - a crow, I think.

An Animagus?

 _Oh, don’t be so_ stupid. _As if he’d risk bringing you out here if there was any hope they could rescue you!_

But Moody could see through anything, and he and Lupin did dismantle the Black’s Sanguiclavis Charm, after all – surely they could get past anything _he_ throws at them.

They’re just waiting for the best moment.  That must be it.  I have to be ready.

I have to be ready. It’ll be okay. It has to be.

“Ready, Mudblood?” he asks, making me jump. He makes a sarcastic flourish at the path. “After you.”  

The path leads straight towards the trees, their bare branches stabbing into the air like crooked bones. The wood is silent and still, almost as if it’s waiting for something...

I shiver - and this time it’s definitely not because of the cold.

“In there?”  

“You’re not spurning the opportunity to look around the grounds, are you?”

I stare at my feet. Why did I ask such a stupid question?

“Yes, on you go,” he says. “ _Don’t_ leave the path.”

I’d rather be walking on the grass after days - weeks? - of touching nothing but stone.  But the path is actually quite comfortable underfoot, and it _feels_ real enough, not that I trust it. I just wish I didn’t have to walk in front of him, where I can’t see what he’s doing… but at least he’s following me, not just sending me alone into God-knows-what. I hope it’s not just to get a better view if there’s something nasty waiting to pounce.

As if _he_ isn’t the nastiest thing I’ve ever encountered...

As I step into the shadow of the first tree, a blood-curdling howl shatters the silence.  I stop, trying to fight back the panic - but there’s nothing to be seen.

_Doesn’t mean that there’s nothing there, though.  Remember those Thestrals..._

But somehow I don’t think that was any kind of horse.

He pushes his wand into my back.  “I don’t remember telling you to stop, Mudblood.  We’ll be in here all day if you’re going to freeze up every time you hear something squeak.”

_Squeak?_

“You have a problem?” The wand digs in painfully between my shoulders.

What’s going to be worse - him, or _that_?

“W-what _was_ that?”  _Damn._ Why can’t I keep my voice steady?

His quiet laugh makes my hair stand on end.  “Oh, there’s quite a collection of interesting creatures in here,” he says, “but most of them won’t attack _me_.  So aren’t you lucky I’m with you?”

_That’s not exactly how I would put it._

I step forward - I’m almost surprised that my legs still support me.  Not that I have a lot of choice, with his wand pressing into my back.

The pressure eases, and he lifts his wand away. He’s still right behind me, though. Down _there_ I’d hate that.  Here, it’s almost... reassuring, however much I hate him.  I listen for the soft crunch of his boots as I go on.

Oddly enough, it isn’t actually that dark now that we’re under the trees.  The bare branches leave plenty of room for shafts of sunlight to pierce down to the ground.  The sky is a vivid blue shade that seems almost unnatural, after all that time surrounded by nothing but stone and darkness.  Even the heavy damp smell of decaying leaves is wonderfully _real._

There’s not much noise, though.  A wood shouldn’t be this quiet, should it? Even if it _is_ winter.

But cocooned as I am in his Warming Charm, it’s hard to feel worried.  As long as I can hear his footsteps behind me, I’m safe.

Safe?  _Safe?_ How can I feel _safe?_   I’m not, I’m _not_ , however relaxed I might feel.  What sort of spell has he put on me anyhow?

I take a very deep breath, as quietly as I can, willing myself alert.  This wood... we’re surrounded by tall straight trees, with little undergrowth to block the view.  And it all looks so familiar - no Whomping Willows, Irascible Ivy or even Biting Brambles in sight. I could be in one of the woods that my parents used to take me to.

I want to go _home._

_No point in thinking like that._

But… we’re in Wiltshire, not the middle of nowhere, assuming these _are_ the grounds of his stupid manor.  If I could get away from him, if I could get off his land...

_Yeah, and what are the chances of that?_

But if I get behind cover before he can cast anything... It looks as if there are bushes up ahead. And if I can make it to the edge of the wood, if there is anyone from the Order watching, they’ll be able to see me.

 _Oh, come off it!  If the Order_ was _watching they’d have rescued you from the lawn._

But maybe they just need more time to react. Now that they know I’m outside... they _have_ to be watching.   They watched Harry all last summer, and they _know_ I’m here.

I _have_ to try.  It’s the only chance I have. If it doesn’t work it can’t possibly be any worse than what he already has planned.

Where _is_ he taking me, anyhow?

I have no idea, but I do know I don’t want to find out.

So I run, ducking back past him on the left. It takes him a second to turn and aim – but by then I’ve dodged behind a bush. I run for the next one faster than I’ve ever run anywhere in my life.

He bellows out the Impediment Jinx. I twist away and the bush beside me jerks away violently with a great tearing of roots.  I run, run, all that anger and hatred and fear transformed into one thing only:  I’m out of that little stone room and I need to get _away._

Suddenly the ground shudders and a chasm appears in front of me.  I almost try to jump it - but the edges are moving apart and I’d never make it and I skid to a halt, shaking.

Where to now?

I spin round.  I can hear him crashing through the bushes, but he’s still out of sight.  If I can just get behind that tree... but a pile of leaves in front of it quivers and _moves_ in a way that a pile of leaves _shouldn’t_ be able to move. It’s forming into a shapeless mass, rising up with an overwhelming smell of decay...

 _Oh God._ I should have known that there’d be nothing _normal_ about any wood he has anything to do with.

He’s almost caught up with me as I start to run in the only direction left but then I see the bushes move and it’s, it’s _not him_ , it’s a ferret - no, a Jarvey - but swelled to the size of an Alsatian with glowing red eyes and long sharp teeth.

I scream.  It lunges forward.

“ _Stupefy!_ ”

Red light streams from behind me and hits the creature right between the eyes. It furrows the ground as it slides towards me, unconscious.

Dead silence.  For a second.

“You stupid, _stupid_ girl!  Didn’t I tell you not to leave the path?”

_I tried, I had to try..._

I nod wordlessly, staring at the ground.

“And didn’t you think I had a reason for that?”

I must be getting used to his tirades - he doesn’t sound as _vicious_ as usual. He’s spitting out his words just like he always does, but he almost sounds like my friend’s dad telling her little brother to _get off the road._

I turn and look at him. Same steely eyes, same hard mouth, same haughty arrogance.

Behind him, the leaf-shape is floating back down to the ground like a deflating balloon, and there’s no sign of that chasm at all.  Was I imagining it?

I wrap my arms around myself, shaking.  From shock - and with cold.  God, it’s cold. I must have broken that spell of his when I ran.  Or maybe he did. I meet his eyes, trying not to look as desperate as I feel.

“What?” he snaps.  The spite is back with a vengeance. If I thought I heard anything else before, I must have been imagining that, as well.

I don’t want to ask... but I’m going to freeze if he doesn’t recast that spell.  I look at the ground.  There’s a misshapen purple toadstool edging towards my toe.  I move my foot away.

“Please... I’m cold.”

“Why, so you are.  And there I was, thinking it was just fear that was making you tremble like that.”

Bastard!  Can’t he see that I’m _freezing_?  I _hate_ him!

“Now, Mudblood,” he sneers, “why should I help you when you won’t even follow one simple instruction?  It’s not as if we have a long way to go. Or are you too soft to cope with a little walk?”

I glare at him. He points imperiously back towards the path.

I follow his directions, shuddering slightly as I pass the unconscious creature sprawled on the ground.  That much was real, then.

But where _is_ the path? I can’t see it at all.  All I can do is follow his terse directions, clinging to his voice as if it’s a lifeline.

 _A_ lifeline _? A lifeline that could pull you under at any moment..._

What else can I do, though?

Suddenly the path is beneath my feet again - but when I look back to where we entered the wood, there’s no sign of it at all.  He smirks at my obvious confusion.

“Well, there’s no longer any need for that part of it, is there?  We’re going _this_ way.” He points in the direction we were going in before.

I start walking.  What choice do I have?  If I don’t walk I’m going to freeze anyway - I can’t feel my feet at all.  I try to send them warmth, the way Viktor told me about once, but it doesn’t seem to make much difference.  The rest of me feels a little warmer – though whether from magic or just from running, I have no idea.

He’s walking beside me now, striding slightly faster than is quite comfortable for me. It feels strange just to be walking with him like this, almost as if this were a normal Sunday afternoon walk.  But it’s not.  I’d _never_ choose to walk anywhere with him, and even though those silent trees _look_ benign enough... I shudder.  I’ll never look at a beech wood the same way again.

Between the soft thuds of his footsteps, I catch a faint hissing sound. Behind us.  It must be the path, boiling away or sinking into the ground or whatever it does.  It has to be the path.

_Don’t look back.  DON’T look back._

And don’t look to the left where his long cloak is brushing against my leg, and don’t look down at my feet that must be white with cold. Every step is agony.

I think there’s a clearing up ahead.  Perhaps that’s where he’s taking me?  If I can only make it that far, perhaps he’ll let me be warm again.

 _But if that_ is _where he’s taking you..._

I don’t care.  I just want to get out of this horrible wood.

And we emerge into the sunshine.  I almost feel relieved - until I see what the path leads to.

A black tower... a folly, I suppose, a Dark wizard’s version of those silly Greek temples on normal country estates. But _foolish_ is hardly the first word that springs to mind. It’s narrow and maybe ten storeys high, though that’s hard to judge - if there _are_ any windows, I can’t see them.  The top is jagged, as if part of it has been snapped off.

I don’t like the look of it at all.

I scan the sky.  Is there _anyone_ out there? They must be able to see us here! _Now_ would be a really good time to _do something_. For Moody and Tonks to come swooping down and give him what he deserves...

But nothing happens.  There’s nothing to hear except the sound of every footstep that takes us closer to that dark tower, nothing to see except for the way it looms over us like a broken fang.

It’s not until we’re about to walk into its shadow that I realise that I can’t see _our_ shadows.  As if we’re not here... Unnatural. Horrible.

But I’m sure there were shadows back by the statue.

Is it because we’re on the path, then?  I couldn’t see it in the woods, after all.  But that would mean... that no one _could_ see us.  Even if they _were_ up there.

Which they’re not.

Unless they’re concealed as well?  If I could just get off the path for a moment, they’d be able to see me.

But surely _Moody_ would be able to see me anyway, if he _was_ there.

_Just do it!  It’s only grass after all._

But that’s what I thought about the wood.  And he’s far too close to me and he’ll be more prepared this time and... we’re at the end of the path.

He casts his eye briefly up the wall, and then moves his wand in an elegant and complex pattern.  I’ve not really noticed the fluidity of his movements before - but then, most of the time I’ve seen him use his wand, I’ve been on the other end of it...

_Please, if you’re out there, do something now..._

The black wall in front of us ripples and- I almost turn and bolt, and I don’t _care_ what’s in the woods, I don’t want to watch this but he steps behind me and I’m trapped face to face with the huge black serpent that’s emerging from the stone.

It’s stone.  It’s magic.  It’s not real, it’s not real, _it’s not real._

But it has a black tongue that flickers out, at me, at him - sniffing, it must be some kind of security device, though why he can’t just walk into his own sodding tower I don’t know - then the thing withdraws into the stone and opens its mouth wide and wider until there’s a gap big enough to walk through.  If you avoid the two-foot long fangs, that is.

I’m _not_ going in there.

“You’ll have to excuse the entrance,” he says dryly.  “This place was built by my great-grandfather... he always did have a rather melodramatic streak.”

 _Like he_ cares _what I think?_

And somehow I don’t think he’s brought me here just to impress me with his ancestor’s taste in intimidating entranceways. I don’t care who built the damn thing, I am not walking into it.

He lays his wand against my neck.

I don’t care.  I’m not going in.

“Now, Mudblood,” he murmurs, “don’t make me use Imperius.  You know how I hate that.”

The edge in his voice turns my bowels to ice.  But I _can’t_ go through that hole.  I can’t even see what’s on the other side!

“You know,” he continues, “I’m really beginning to think I’ve been far too nice to you up till now.  There are _all_ sorts of spells we haven’t even touched on yet.  So unless you want me to demonstrate... hmm, lets say the Putrefaction Hex... _right_ _now_ \- and I really don’t think you do - I suggest that you _move._ ”

I find myself stepping forward into the inky blackness almost before I realise I’ve decided to comply.

But there _is_ a little dim light in here, when my eyes have adjusted. It filters into the circular room through narrow slit-like windows.  There are no other doors.

Another prison.

How could I have just walked in here?  He’s going to do something unspeakable, I know it!

_You’ve known that since the first moment you saw him down there.  And there’s never been anything you could do about it._

That doesn’t help.

At least it’s a bit warmer in here.

I walk over to one of the windows - he hasn’t told me not to and I can’t just stand here feeling my panic rising until I go mad or scream or do something else that he’ll tear me apart for.

Outside, a broad swathe of grass slopes down to a lake. Across the water there’s an imposing sandstone mansion - the infamous Malfoy Manor, I suppose.  From this distance I can make out a portico and formally laid out gardens.

Funny, I’d expected something more gothic. That place doesn’t really look much different from any of the other stately homes in Wiltshire.

Wish I could say the same about the inhabitants.  How do they keep an estate this size hidden, anyhow?  Must be Unplottable, rather than Muggle-repelling.  They’ve certainly got the money for it.

His boots echo on the stone behind me.  The sound makes the back of my neck prickle.

“What are you staring at?” he asks brusquely.

I hate him! How can someone so brutal live in such a tranquil-looking place?

I fix my eyes on the view. The sun is starting to set, making the stone and the water glow a rich dark pink.

“Y-your house.”

“My _Manor,_ Mudblood.”

Unbelievable.  I turn and stare at him, but his face is hidden in shadow.  He’s got the money and influence to have anything he wants - what difference does it make to him what _I_ say?

Whatever.  I turn back to the window, clinging to that sweet vision of normality at the close of a winter day.

“Yes, take a good look,” he says softly.  “You won’t be seeing the sun again.”

What am I _doing?_   He’s... he’s going to kill me. Or worse. And I’m looking at the _view_?

I bolt for the door, but before I’ve taken two steps my feet are glued to the floor and I barely avoid pitching forward onto my hands.

He laughs.  Icy rivulets of fear run down my neck and pool in my stomach.

There’s a hideous shrieking and scraping of stone.  I clench my fists in despair - the snake-mouth door is closing. But the floor is shaking slightly too.  The light is too dim to see properly, but I’m sure there’s something moving there.  Another snake?  I hear a soft whimper.  Mine.

“That’s right, Mudblood,” he says. “The only place you’re going… is _down_.”

I can just make out the black hole in the dark grey floor.  It looks horribly like the snake-pit in that Indiana Jones film.

_Oh God if you’re out there if anyone’s out there please please please help me now..._

But it’s the Devil that rules here. No one can help me. No one’s going to rescue me.

I feel a slight tingle in the soles of my feet.  I can move them now.  But that’s the _last_ thing I want to do.

I hear his sharp exasperated sigh, echoing round the room as if it’s coming from the darkness itself.

I can’t.  But I have to.  If that’s where he wants me to go, I know I don’t have any choice.

I take a step towards the gap in the floor, pushing myself through the terror that feels as if it’s solidified in front of me.  Another step.  And another.

“Just a little further, Mudblood,” he hisses in my ear.  “Down you go.”

For a moment I can’t make myself move.  But I _won’t_ give him the satisfaction of pushing me, even if he... even if... _especially_ if!

I step forwards into the hole.

And stumble as my foot makes contact with something solid. I scrabble to regain my balance but I’m running headlong down a flight of stairs, unable to stop myself...

_“IMPEDIMENTA!”_

It jerks me backwards. I fall heavily, banging the back of my thigh on the edge of one of the steps.  But I’m still sliding down… I twist onto my front and grab out with my hands, scrabbling then coming to a stop, breathing heavily.

The steps don’t go down very far, I’m sure I caught sight of the bottom in the spell-light.  What _is_ this place?  I don’t _think_ I saw any snakes...

“Do try to be less clumsy,” he sneers down at me.  “Are you _trying_ to break your leg?”

Bastard!  Why didn’t he _tell_ me there were steps?

He starts to descend towards me.

He’s not just leaving me here?  I’m not sure whether to be relieved or worried.

But then the stone slab rumbles and shrieks back into place above us, and any relief is drowned in rising terror.

 _Where are we why has he brought me here what’s he going to_ do _?_

_“Lumos.”_

The light he casts is very dim.  I glance down behind me but I can only just about see to the bottom of the stairs.  I look back at him. With a slight movement of his fingers he beckons me to rise.

But my limbs seem have turned to jelly.

“I-”

He silences me with a frown.

“Not a word, little one.  I don’t want to hear the slightest sound out of you.”

He’s speaking very quietly. There’s no echo, no resonance from the stone corridor below.

 _Oh God, what_ is _this place?_

Somehow I get to my feet.  Somehow I make it down the stairs without falling again.  Somehow the cold dread clenching my stomach doesn’t stop me from breathing.

The air is dry and tastes of nothing.

Three round arches gape in front of us, like the empty black holes of a skull.  He points silently at the middle one. I walk towards it, concentrating on placing my feet as noiselessly as I can.  Because it’s better than thinking about how it makes no difference if I provoke him now.  There is no hope down here.

_There is always hope…_

I push that treacherous thought away.

I can hear him walking behind me. A subdued click on the flagstones.  Measured breathing.  All sounds fall flat in the motionless air.

The air feels thick, somehow, as if I wouldn’t be able to see through it even if the light from his wand _wasn’t_ getting fainter and fainter. I can barely even make out the dark mouths of the corridors he directs me past, can hardly see that the one we’re following leads to... a dead end.

I wish there were a better word for that.

_“Nox.”_

_Why did he put out the light?_

There’s a clinking sound above me, the soft scraping sound of metal on rusted metal.  I can’t quite suppress a sharp intake of breath.  The noise stops.

Something cold touches the side of my neck.

I’m too petrified to move a muscle, except for breathing too fast, too fast.  He must be able to hear that in this confined space.

_His wand, his wand, it’s only his wand._

Only?

“Scared, my little one?”

I nod, very slightly.  Then I realise he can’t see me, and even if he could I’m shaking so much he probably wouldn’t have noticed the movement anyway.  But then, he doesn’t really _need_ me to answer.

“And so you should be.  But don’t worry, we don’t have long to wait now.”

 _He’s just trying to frighten you._ Think _\- it’s the only chance you’ve got!_

But what chance could I possibly have _now_?

He moves his wand away from my neck.  I hear him breathe in.

_“Incendio.”_

I flinch - but a light flares behind me.  An orange light, casting long flickering shadows over the rough-hewn walls.  I daren’t look round, but can just about see the empty iron bracket out of the corner of my eye.  And there’s no mistaking that smell of smoke.

I can only think of one reason why a pureblood wizard would choose to use a real, non-magical torch.  And it’s not a reason I want to think about…

“Not far now, Mudblood,” he says.  “On you go.”

Somehow, I manage to walk forwards.  He lingers behind.

_Why?_

It sounds as if he’s scraping something against the wall.

_What for?_

I can’t think I don’t want to think I-

_Think!_

But getting out of this would take a miracle, and I’ve never believed in those.  There’s nothing I can do... I blink back tears.  I don’t want to die, but I am _not_ going to give him the satisfaction of watching me snivel.

As I reach the blank wall in front of me... it moves.  It’s sliding up into the roof of the passage with a quiet whisper.  That seems wrong, somehow. Those tortured shrieks made by the slab up in the tower-room would have been far more appropriate.

There’s a breath of air on my cheek, cool and fresh but smelling faintly of... boiled vegetables?  It feels like there’s quite a large space there, but it’s too dark to see inside.

He’s coming towards me.  The light he’s carrying starts to spill into... _there._

_I don’t want to look._

I turn away from the empty doorway.  He’s bearing down on me, torch held high.  It gives a fiery glow to his hair and throws shadows across his face that hide his expression and break up his features so that he looks eerily _different_.  A complete stranger... but not.

He stops when he reaches me.  There’s none of the usual mockery showing on his face, just grim satisfaction.

I don’t understand him. Surely there must be _some_ trace of humanity in there, surely there must be some way to make him see me as a _person._

_You don’t want to do this, whatever you’re going to do, you don’t really, you don’t you don’t_

But he just looks down at me, and his lip curls in that familiar, hateful sneer.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why you’re here?”

_No. Yes. What’s the point?  Think!  I don’t want to..._

“No?  But you’ve always been so full of questions before.  Could it be that you’ve actually learned something during your time with me?”

I look down at the polished stone floor.  If I’ve learned anything, it’s not to expect answers unless he wants to give them.

“Well, Mudblood, this is where you have the privilege of repaying me for all my hospitality.”

All his... _what?_

“Yes - _hospitality_ ,” he hisses. “And I’m not just talking about the last few weeks. Why you and your kind think you have a right to come and live off the wealth that we _real_ wizards have built up over generations is completely beyond me.”

He smiles - it’s so... predatory it would freeze me to the bone if I wasn’t numb with terror already. 

“Ah yes, this day has been _far_ too long in coming... but here we are at last.  Won’t you come in?”

I... can’t _think_.  But what difference would it make if I could?

I glance over my shoulder.  In the dim light the curved walls of the room beyond are just about visible.  And... there’s a stone shelf running round the wall, glinting with a neat row of bottles. In the middle of the floor there’s a black stone... table?

I’m as firmly rooted to the floor as it is.

“Don’t just stand there, Mudblood,” he says, softly, dangerously.

I close my eyes.  I can’t do this any more. Can’t go on.  Can hardly stand up. He’ll do what he’s going to do whether I make it easy for him or not.

“Wake up, little one,” he says in that same low voice.  But I’m not here any more.  I refuse to be here.

I only flinch slightly when he touches his wand to my belly, only shiver a little when he runs it lightly up to my throat.  There’s no spell, after all. I know he’s not going to work magic here unless... unless...

I look at him.  How could I _not_ look at him?

“Just remember,” he tells me with his terrible calm certainty, “that whatever you think I’m going to do to you, I can always make it _worse_ , hmm?”

It’s the voice that makes me move, more than the threat – after all, his mere presence is a threat.  But there’s something about his voice that seems to bypass my will to resist, driving me forward like an automaton.

“To the left. Stand by the bench.”  There’s no cushioning softness now - his words are clipped, like Professor Snape firing off instructions for a potion he hopes will be beyond us.

No point in wondering _what_...

Yes, it _is_ more of a bench than a table – but even more like a low, narrow bed with a solid stone headboard.

Or a grave.

His voice cracks through the silence.  _“Stupefy!”_

I fall forward, and see no more.


	7. Allegiance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius pushes Hermione to the limit. How will she choose to react?  
> And where exactly do _his_ loyalties lie?
> 
> **Warning:** Things get a little unpleasant in this chapter. But if you're still reading by this point, that won't come as a surprise, will it?

I blink in the smoky light. A harsh buzz beats in my head. 

_Enervation shock, just Enervation..._

It fades. The room slides into focus.

The first thing I see is him, standing over me with his wand aimed straight between my eyes, grinning with pure malevolent pleasure.  And I know, without a shadow of doubt, that _this_ is the moment I’ve been dreading. This time there will be no distractions, no interruptions. And not the faintest possibility of escape.

It’s sheer instinct that makes me try to fling myself aside. But I can’t move \- the ropes binding me to the cold stone bench make sure of that. He’s sat me upright against the vertical slab, with my right arm angled out uncomfortably and cords wrapped so tightly round my legs and stomach and chest and arms that my hands are tingling. _I can’t move._ At all. I struggle desperately for a moment, but it’s utterly futile.

That evil smile broadens.  He looks over his shoulder and remarks, “Well, it rather looks as if those Muggle knots of yours work.”

I freeze.  _Who’s he talking to?_

He steps back, and now I can see the rest of the room - a disorientating oval shape, lit by flickering torches mounted at intervals along the wall. They cast an eerie orange light on the troll-like figure by the shelf.  He’s tall and broad, with hair that matches his black robe, an ugly little black moustache and an even uglier leer.  I recognise him immediately.

Macnair.

The Ministry executioner.

The one who got on so well with the giants.  _Maniac,_ Hagrid called him.

_Oh God, they really are going to kill me..._

“Of course they work,” he says. “My knots can hold a rabid Hippogriff - your scrawny little witch isn’t going anywhere.”

He laughs.  “No, she certainly isn’t - are you, Mudblood?  You must be so _curious_ after all this time, and I do know how you need to have your curiosity... satisfied.”

His jibe doesn’t quite penetrate, as if terror has numbed the part of me that would have cared.  All I feel is a dull, distant resentment that he has to taunt me even now.  I hate him, with every corner of my soul that isn’t already frozen in terror.

“So now that you’re fully awake,” he continues, “I think it’s time to get started.”

_Get started..._ What’s he going to _DO?_

I can’t think about that, I can’t.  I’ll go mad with fear if I do.

_Maybe that would make it easier..._

He turns to Macnair.  “You did bring the dragon’s blood?”

“Of course.”  He hands over a large glass bottle.

Dragon’s blood? What’s he going to do with that?

My mind skids over the possibilities, but there are so many ways it can be used...

“Ah, Walden,” he says, “whatever would I do without you...”

“Get your supplies in Knockturn Alley, like everyone else?”

“Yes, but when you do that, you can never quite be sure who’s watching,” he says, giving me a pointed glance.  “And as you know, I do _value_ discretion.”

Macnair grins, flipping a Galleon from left hand to right.  “Oh yes, Lucius.  You always have.”

“And besides, no one else has such consistent access to the fresh material.”  He turns the bottle in his hands.  I watch his long white fingers lingering on the dark glass... it’s the first time I’ve seen him without gloves, I realise.

“What kind of dragon was this?”

“Hebridean Black.  Had to dispose of one two days ago - old MacFusty was terribly upset.”  He grins.  “Seems it went mad and attacked a Muggle fishing boat.”

“How... tragic.”

He’s smirking. Bastard.

He catches my look of disgust.

“Look, Walden, I think our guest disapproves of us. Isn’t that sweet?”

They both laugh at me.  I look away.

I _hate_ him.  Both of them. Every word of their conversation, just the way they’re talking, makes me feel sick. I don’t want to listen.

_Focus, Hermione.  Don’t give up now._

But there’s nothing I can _do._

_You know that’s not true._

No... it’s not.  I almost wish it was.  I almost wish I could give up, not have to fight this any more.  But if they need me conscious for whatever Dark magic they’re planning, that means I have a chance to resist it.  And even if they only want my terror for their own sadistic entertainment, I owe it to myself not to give it to them.

_He_ is pulling up a stool on my right.  I look straight ahead, fixing my eyes on the torch opposite.

Oh God. What was it I was reading about fighting fear?

_Focus on what is happening_ now _. Fear can’t exist in the present.  Fear is just the past projected into the future._

That’s right. It’s pain that belongs to the present.

_That’s fear!  Resist it!_

Okay... okay. Right now, right at this instant, I’m _not_ in pain. Right now, right at this instant, they aren’t hurting me. Right now all that’s happening is Macnair lifting a steaming cauldron off the shelf and bringing it round to where _he_ is sitting.

No, no...

_Don’t give in to the fear!  Now what are they_ doing _?_

Manoeuvring the cauldron so that it’s standing between us - I can feel the vapours on my outstretched arm. I concentrate on the smell, but the only things I recognise are the unmistakable scent of sneezewort, and maybe a faint whiff of vervain - either the other ingredients are more exotic than any we’ve used at school, or they’ve already blended together into whatever it is he’s brewing.

Whatever it is.  Whatever it _does_.

_Focus on the PRESENT, Hermione._

Sneezewort is used in just about every type of befuddlement draught.  I am _not_ going to let him mess with my perception.

He lights a fire under the cauldron.  Magically.  This potion is a focus of whatever they’re going to do, then.  I can almost _feel_ that – there’s no other magic here to interfere.  What kind of spell requires a room so shielded that he wouldn’t even Portkey into it?

_Something precise.  And powerful._

He didn’t even use a Binding Jinx... though there could be other reasons for that.  Binding spells can be broken by the backlash from a stronger curse…

_Don’t think about that!_

I wrench my attention back to _him_.  He’s removing the stopper from the bottle of dragon’s blood.  And suddenly I have no trouble focusing on the Now - the stench is unbelievable. It’s all I can do not to retch.

It slops into the cauldron in glutinous lumps.  The liquid hisses fiercely as a cloud of bloody steam erupts.

When it subsides there’s the glint of metal in his hand.  He’s picked up a knife.

_That_ knife.

He reaches out to rest the blade against my cheek.

“You didn’t think I’d forgotten, did you?” he murmurs.  “No... I’ve been looking forward to this ever since you... introduced me to your handiwork.”

He smiles then, and I... I look away, look at the torches, at the shelf of bottles, at the broad figure standing on my left... anywhere to avoid his awful glittering eyes.

Macnair is watching him with a very peculiar expression.

If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.  He just puts the knife down beside me on the obsidian slab, and pulls a dark wad of material from his robes.

Gloves.  He stretches out his fingers and fastens the buttons at his wrists with small, precise movements.

“Well, I don’t want to be contaminated by your filthy blood, do I?” he says.

He stands up.

I close my eyes.  Even after cursing me and drugging me and cutting me and... and... seeing me naked, for Gods sake, he’s never actually _touched_ me and just for an instant I wish that he would.  It would seem more... honest, somehow. I’m fed up of him treating me as if _I’m_ untouchable.

But I don’t really want him anywhere near me, of course.  I just want to go home.

The touch of those gloved fingers on my arm jerks me back.  He’s stretching out my skin, holding my forearm firmly against the stone just below my elbow.  The knife gleams against those black gloves... and the point is cold against the crook of my arm.  There’s no gloating in his expression now, just calm... intent, a complete focus on what he’s doing.  _What he’s doing._ To think I missed the only chance I had to escape because I was too squeamish to do the same to him!

He raises an eyebrow at me – I think he’s remembering that as well.

“I’d normally prefer to use a finer implement for this sort of work,” he tells me, “but I think this is... fitting, don’t you?”

_No.  NO._

His lip curls as he takes a firm grasp of the knife and I’m almost aware of his hand moving and then there’s nothing but the PAIN as it slices into my arm and I try to jerk away but he’s pressing down with his hand to make sure I can’t... and _oh-my-God_ there’s another bolt of rending agony as he _twists_ it. I only realise I’m screaming when he mercifully pulls it away and steps back.

Not ‘mercifully’.  Never that, not from him.  It still hurts, still HURTS.  I bite into my cheek.

_Focus!_

At least the _pain_ makes it easy to stay in the present but I can’t look at him, I can’t look at him.  My eyes rove wildly round the room... the bottles containing God-knows-what, the torches flickering gently as if nothing of any consequence has happened, that hideous grin on Macnair’s face... I can’t look at that either.

_Focus._

I swallow, and drag my eyes back to look at my arm.  It’s slick with red where he cut me.  Slick with blood running down and drip drip drip drip drip dripping off my arm into the cauldron below.  Into the cauldron. The cauldron... What does he want with my _blood,_ of all things?  The question hits me like a bucket of ice-cold water, a fear utterly beyond mere pain and I’m screaming again, I can’t help it.

_“Silencio.”_

_drip drip drip_

_Damn him!_ Wasn’t he _trying_ to make me scream?

“Not yet, Mudblood.  You’ll have your chance for that.”

I strain every muscle to move my arm, even to twist it so I can aim that trickle of blood away from the potion beneath.  But it’s no good.  That bastard Macnair knew what he was doing with his bloody knots.

_drip drip drip drip drip drip_

“And do stop wriggling like that,” he says nastily.  “You’re getting poor Walden all excited.”

“Lucius...!” There’s a spluttering sound from my left, but it subsides under the force of that icy glare.

_Oh God..._ I close my eyes and let my head thud back on the stone behind me, the pain a dull echo of the agony piercing my arm.

_drip drip drip drip_

They’re draining my blood.

I’m going to die.

I don’t want to die. But when it comes to Dark magic... there are fates worse than death.

How I wish he had only wanted information, or even revenge!  Then it would just be a question of endurance - unspeakably terrible, he’s done enough to make that quite obvious, but at least I could hope for oblivion at the end.  Why didn’t they teach us how to resist _this_ sort of attack?

_drip drip drip drip_

_Think!  What have you got to go on?_

Dragon’s blood...

According to the Dumbledore Categorisation, dragon’s blood has twelve uses, but at least half of them relate to Binding Spells of some kind.

But by combining dragon’s blood with _my_ blood?   Not to mention sneezewort, vervain and whatever else is in there...

_drip drip drip_

_No._

A series of grotesque images flit across my mind, colour plates from some of the DADA texts in the Room of Requirement, lurid pictures from some of the trashier magazines that circulate in the common room, hybrids from my own overactive imagination.  All horribly vivid and coming faster than I can really grasp them.  That’s probably due to the vervain, I tell myself.  Or just blind fear. There are too many ways to... to... _use_ a bound mind, body or soul.  And dragon’s blood is about the most powerful magical binding agent in existence.

_drip drip drip drip drip_

But... I don’t know nearly enough to be sure, but I do know that it’s not just my blood he needs to work that kind of spell.  Even now, if I can keep my mind clear, I have a chance - if not for life then at least for a clean death.

_drip... drip... drip..._

There’s a bloom of warmth against the crook of my arm.

I open my eyes.  He’s holding his wand over the cut, and he seems to have healed it enough to slow the flow of blood.  He hasn’t done anything about the _pain_ , though, of course he hasn’t.  Bastard...  I take a deep breath, trying to relax, trying to accept it as the mere signal it is.  But my whole body is trembling with the strain.

“Ah, yes, I thought you’d be interested in this,” he says, as if he’s merely showing me an item about a school fête in the local newspaper.  He touches the swirling liquid in the cauldron with his wand.  When he lifts it, a dark red globule falls back with a splash.

“Dragon’s blood is such a... versatile substance,” he says, “and the research carried out by your dear Headmaster was certainly a great service to us all.  Such a pity he was too... _noble_ to take it to its logical conclusions.”

I watch numbly as he dips his wand in the potion again.

_drip... drip... drip..._

“Yes,” he murmurs, with a chilly little smile. “It took the Dark Lord to perfect the _thirteenth_ use of dragon’s blood.”

He touches the wand to my forehead, tracing out some symbol I can’t identify.  A trickle of the noxious liquid runs down my nose.  I twist my head away to the left - only to be faced by Macnair, who steps forward with a speed that belies his weight.  He clamps his hand under my chin and forces it back round towards where _he_ is standing, looking down on me with a cold stare that seems to bore right through me to the stone beneath.

“Still resisting, little one?” he says.  “Well, we’ll soon see about that.”

At least he can’t insist on a reply while I’m under his Silencing Charm.

Macnair chuckles.

He glances at him.  “Thank you, Walden, but I can take care of her.”

He slides his hand up my throat as Macnair lets go of me, and curls his fingers and thumb onto my jawbone. His grip isn’t as harsh as Macnair’s, but it’s infinitely more commanding.

_drip... drip... drip..._

_Think! Don’t let him intimidate you._

It’s a bit late for that.

I’m too scared for anger. Hate is about the only thing that’s going to cut through the fear.  So I focus on that, glaring upwards, throwing it at him.

He smiles lazily back at me.  “Well, well, well.  I do think you’re almost _ripe_.”  And he daubs the potion across my lips.

I flinch, but he holds me firmly, fingers digging into my jaw, forcing me to open my mouth so he can run his wand around the inside of my lips.  I almost gag.  All I can taste is blood.  All I can _smell_ is blood.

He pulls his wand away and wipes it on my robe.  “Ugh.”  He grimaces at Macnair. “The things we do for the cause.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he replies. “I know you have a problem with soiling your wand, but personally I’d have to say that a few streaks of blood make her a lot more appealing.”

“Yes, well, you would, wouldn’t you,” he mutters as he bends down to pick up the knife.

_drip... drip... drip..._

I watch him, focusing on just how much I hate the way he languidly flicks a fold of his robe aside, how much I hate the way that his white hair brushes his face as he bends over me, how much I _hate_ the arrogant way he lifts the fabric of my robe up from my ribs, hate the way he’s underlining my complete powerlessness by wielding the knife I made to attack _him_ with.

The knife... what’s he going to do _now_?

_Focus!  You are NOT powerless!_

I hate him, I hate him, hate his knowing little smile as he makes a small slash in the fabric, hate that gleam in his eye as I struggle and try to twist away, hate the precision with which he trails the bloody end of his wand across my heart.

_drip... drip..._

A rough laugh sounds from behind my left shoulder.  “If I’d known you needed to do that, Lucius, I’d have stripped her before I tied her down.”

“It wasn’t necessary.”

“No harm in mixing business with pleasure, though, is there?”

He straightens up and glares over my head.  “Walden. We all know about your little... proclivities.  I _don’t_ think we need to dwell on them.”

It doesn’t seem to intimidate him, though, given the way he saunters round to leer down at me.  He’s almost worse than that icy creature on my right.

“And,” he says, fingering the rope across my stomach almost absent-mindedly, “I’d appreciate it if you kept your hands off her.  I haven’t spent the last three weeks preparing the loathsome little bitch just for you to mess everything up now.”

I _hate_ him...

“If you say so, Lucius,” says Macnair, grinning broadly.  “I can wait.”

The glare he gets in response makes him take a step backwards.  But only a step.  He’s still leering at me in a truly _horrible_ way. I wish he’d just leave, except then I’d be alone here with... with... 

At least their vile bickering takes that terrible focus away from me.

_drip... drip... drip..._

He daubs the potion on my feet, on my left hand, on my right hand.  I can feel my skin tingling in every place the substance is touching me, but... but... that isn’t magic.  That’s just because I’m concentrating on those places too much.  Isn’t it?

I twist my head round to my shoulder, wiping my lips on my robe.  But I can’t do anything about the inside of my lips.  And I can still feel the tingling, but that’s just because of the contact with the fabric.  Isn’t it?

Two smooth fingers hook round my chin, jerking my head back to the front.

“Dear me, Mudblood.  Let’s have some self-control, shall we?”

_Yes, let’s._ Hate.  Not fear.  Really not fear.

“Or did you just want some more?  That I can do for you, if you wish.”

And he does, finding a particularly sticky lump and spreading it slowly and very deliberately over my mouth, a cruel gleam in his eyes challenging me to protest. I hate his air of utter control, as if _nothing_ I can do will make a difference.  The bastard is utterly in his element.

_drip... drip... drip..._

“So,” he says, “shall we begin?”

Begin?  _Begin?_   Hasn’t he already done that?

Macnair laughs. “Aren’t you going to explain it to her?” he says. “I’m sure she’s dying to find out.”

“Of course not - and please will you refrain from asking any more ill-timed questions. I will not have you ruining the balance now.”

He raises his wand above his head.  I follow the motion with my eyes.  There’s nothing else I _can_ do.

Very slowly, he traces a fluid spiral around us both, bringing the wand down until he’s aiming at the cauldron.

_“Effundo.”_

The spell shudders through me from my head to my toes.

I tense - a reflex resistance. But I’m alive.  And conscious.  So far.

_What did he do?_

We’re surrounded by a cone of blue-green light, sparkling strands that writhe together and flow sluggishly downwards.  It’s hard to trace the path - it seems to wind through his wand and then... _through_ me, emerging from my head and my heart and my feet and my hands to swirl down towards the cauldron.

It’s almost... beautiful. Like those insidious Veela are beautiful.

What _is_ this?  The word he spoke has to do with pouring, if I heard him right.  But pouring what?

I still don’t know what he wants, but I’m _not_ going to give it to him.  I take a deep breath, and concentrate very hard on the feel of the air in my lungs, the chafing of the ropes, the pain where he cut my arm...

_drip... drip... drip..._

That sound is louder now, as if it’s echoing along every one of those spell-strands.  But the rest of the room seems insubstantial, the looming figure of Macnair a mere shadow.  _He_ , though.... _he_ is so much there that I can almost _feel_ his satisfied smile lingering on all the places where he smeared the potion.

He frowns.  The blue-green strands twist away from him. The visible movement is almost imperceptible, but the sharp wrench within me makes me gasp.

“Oh, to think I almost forgot.”  He lays his wand across my lips.  _“Finite.”_

That tingle on my lips intensifies to a buzz.  There’s an ugly thick rope of writhing magic running from my mouth straight into the cauldron. I close my mouth firmly. He smiles.

I hate him.

_drip... drip... drip..._

How much blood have I lost?

_It doesn’t matter.  You’re going to die anyway._

If I’m lucky.  Oh God, let it be over…

He turns and walks towards the other end of the bench.  The cone shifts and stretches to accommodate him.  I clench my hands, focusing very hard on every little movement in my muscles.

I’m a Gryffindor.  If he’s going to... _whatever_... I have to face it, and I’ll do it showing him what Muggleborns are really made of.  I _won’t_ give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

_Brave words..._

But I’m not brave, I’m terrified.  If there was anything I could say to him that would make him stop, I would.  But there isn’t.

Something _twists_ through my head and my heart. The spell-strands there sparkle even more vividly than before.

_drip... drip... drip..._

He stops by my feet and turns to face me.

“So,” he says, very quietly, “now that you can speak again, is there anything you want to say to me?”

I clamp my lips closed. Half of me wants to scream hysterically at the evil bastard, but I _will not_.  The only chance I have is to hold onto my honour.  My self.

“No?  How... uncharacteristic.  But you will, little one.”

_What’s he going to DO?_

He twirls his wand lazily, watching me closely.

_drip... drip... drip..._

He raises his wand.

_Focus. There’s nothing happening_ at this moment _that you can’t handle._

But his eyes are an ocean of calm, considered cruelty and as I meet his gaze I feel myself falling, drowning in terror and just before I go under he smiles at me and raises his wand - and the world explodes.

_“Crucio!”_

_Blood... fire..._ blades slicing into every square inch of my body _no no nonono_ dragging through flesh  
piercing bone _oh God Oh GOD..._  
andnow the agony in my arm is _nothing,_ I can’t even feel it, no arms  
or legs just circuits overloaded with _pain_ , burning out, burning,  
burning, everything on fire and this can’t go on this  
has to _end_ oh God I want to die  
I have to be dying when my skin is being shredded and  
every joint ripped apart and  
_every_ muscle is cramping in screaming agony like  
the wailing of a thousand banshees _please_ let me die now-

It stops.

And the banshee screaming stops.

_oh God oh God oh God_

A convulsive bolt of fire lancing through my ribs and that inhuman screech again...

That was me.

Oh God.

I turn my head to the left and cough and cough and my throat is raw with screaming.  There’s blood trickling from my wrist where I was pulling against the rope.  I shudder, and close my eyes.  I can’t even _look_ at my other arm.

_drip drip drip drip drip_

That... that was... unimaginable.  Beyond any attempt to grasp it, as if anyone could _want_ to.  I shiver.  Never, never again...

But if my mind can’t remember, my body can - it’s as if the Curse is alive, malignant, waiting red and formless at my back, reaching out tentacles that could pull me back at any moment, ready to overtake me and crush me even if I _ran_ and I can’t even do that _oh God-_

Muscles spasm and I jerk and I cry out at the pain of rough rope against raw flesh.

Footsteps on stone.

I blink rapidly, struggle to focus.  I’d forgotten about, about _him_ , it’s hard enough fighting the pain and those tendrils of fire that whip along my bones...

He’s looking exactly as he did... _before._ How can he be untouched by this?

He crouches on my left, eye to eye.  Raised eyebrow.  Slight _smile._

“So, what did you think?”

Think? _Think?_ What’s thinking got to do with _that_?

Other eyebrow rises.

“Well, I did promise, little one.  And I do like to keep my promises.”

Rusty shriek of something shifting in my brain.

Why? _Why?_ Why did he let me fool myself that I could hold out?  Why didn’t he do this the moment he caught me in his bloody trap?  Why did he let me _hope_?

God, I hate him, I hate him.  All this time he knew, he _knew_ what that Curse would do.  And he’s just been playing with me, laughing at my pathetic illusions of resistance. I loathe him, from the depths of my soul.

He smirks, and stands up, fingering the thick black rod in his hand.

Rod.  Wand.  Spell.  _Him._   It’s _not_ the Curse I have to worry about most, even if it is still swirling at the edges of consciousness. __

“Please...”

Wand whips downwards, pointing straight at me.

“You want more, Mudblood?”

_No!_

“No... please... don’t, _please_ don’t...”

He’s won, can’t he see that?  Can’t he see I’ll do _anything_ rather than face that again?

There’s a gentle tug at my forehead and my feet.  It’s the lack of pain that alerts me - no _way_ was that a Cruciatus aftershock.

It’s that Effundus spell.  Those twisting ribbons of blue-green light almost look solid, they’re so opaque.

_drip drip drip_

My blood runs cold.  He’s just trying to break my mind, to weaken my resistance to whatever that spell is doing!  I need to hold on. He can have me screaming for mercy in an instant, I know that now, but I won’t forget who I am, or who _he_ is, standing there examining me with those clinical grey eyes.

God, I hate him.

“Not long after you arrived, Mudblood, I asked you a question.  Do you remember what it was?”

He asked me lots of questions!  How am I supposed to know which one he’s talking about?  Why doesn’t he just get on with whatever he’s going to do?

All I want to do is make sure he’s not going to throw that Curse at me again.  I look up at him, trying to add some humility to the mix of dread and despair.

“What is it you want me to do?” I ask, ignoring his question.  “Just tell me and I’ll do it, but please... please don’t do _that_ again...”

His eyes widen – I’ve surprised the bastard, I guess he didn’t expect me to cut across him to bargain directly and for a split second I could almost imagine that... that he’s looking at _me._ But then the spark of connection is gone - if it was ever there at all - as that languid smile spreads across his face.

_drip... drip... drip..._

He crouches down, facing me at eye level again.

“Now, little one,” he murmurs, “that’s just not how the game is played.  What I _want_ is for you to answer my questions.”  He brushes his gloved hand over my right cheek and curls his fingers into my hair. “And as you finally seem to have decided to co-operate, let’s start with the one I just asked, shall we?”

I stare at him in panic.  What he just asked was... oh yes, he was asking me about something he asked... when?  When I first fell into his hell-hole?  When he drugged me with Probitaserum?  How am I supposed to know?  I want to answer, I do, I don’t want him to think I’m being stubborn, but I _don’t know_ what he wants me to say.

“I- I... I’m sorry,” I say in a very small voice.  “I don’t know which one you mean.”

“You don’t know?  Well, that has to be a first, doesn’t it?”

I wish he’d just stop it! Just because he wants to prove how bloody superior he is...

“Let me remind you, then,” he continues.  “If your memory isn’t completely sieve-like, perhaps you’ll recall me asking whether your current... situation has caused you to regret your decision to masquerade as a witch.”

Oh, yes, I remember that, and I can’t believe he’s harping on about it again.  And I remember telling him ‘no’, twice, and I remember his reply, as well...

_‘No regrets, Mudblood?  You will have, I promise you that...’_

“Now, Mudblood,” he says softly, “I’d like to hear you answer that question again.  And be a good girl and tell me the truth, hmm?”

The answer is still no. Though if I had _known..._ but no, I don’t regret it.  Not really.  I was eleven - I can’t regret a decision I made then. What eleven-year-old wouldn’t have jumped at the chance of a fairytale come true?

_drip... drip... drip..._

But I can’t tell him that.  It’s not what he wants to hear.

_He did say he wanted the truth._

Why?  Just so he can cast that spell at me again?

Suddenly he twists his hand in my hair and forces my head back against the stone, then pulls viciously upwards so I can’t move at all.  I breathe hard.  It _hurts_... but this pain is at least manageable, something to focus on rather than, than, that _Curse_ and the excruciating random twitching it left in its wake.

“Is it such a difficult question, little one?”

He’s leaned in so close that the only thing I can see is his face.  His nostrils are flaring slightly and there’s a horrible eager gleam in his eye.  The way he’s smiling turns me to stone.

“Well, perhaps I can help you with that...”

He lays his wand against my right cheek.

I... I... can’t say anything.  Can’t _think_ anything.

_drip... drip... drip..._

He slides it back towards him, drawing it along my cheek and away from my face until it’s hovering an inch from my nose.

_No!_

I try to wrench my head away but he’s holding my hair so taut that all I can do is wince with the pain.

“Now, now - you know this is all for the best in the end.  I do want you to be clear about your answer...”

He’s _mad!_

_“Crucio.”_

ravening monster leaps from behind  
_sabre teeth_ rending at my heart my gut _claws_ tearing _Noooooo_  
white-hot wires slice through my arms _I can’t I can’t_  
_stop stop stop stop stop_ and acid tentacles lash deep-

I’m still thrashing and screaming when my mind catches up with the ending of the spell.

_Oh God..._ That was only a couple of seconds... or was it a minute?  Not more... what would it be like if- 

Sheet of steel agony splitting my spine.  I jerk and gasp at the pain in my scalp.

He’s still holding me there.  Must have been holding on all through... It’s a wonder I have any hair left.

“Such pretty screaming, little one,” he murmurs. “I think Walden is going to find you quite... entrancing.  Maybe even enough to make up for that Hippogriff you deprived him of.”

I stare at him.  He _doesn’t_ mean...  He can’t.  He wouldn’t just hand me over to that sick maniac after everything...

_And what makes you think he’ll care what happens to you once he’s got what he wants?_

Whatever that is.

He looks into my eyes for several long seconds. A calm grey ocean that pulls me in and pushes me under...

_drip... drip... drip..._

He lets go of my hair.  A few brown wisps float to the floor.  And a couple of red clumps.

I close my eyes and let my head fall back and the tears roll down my cheeks.

I knew there was no way out, I _knew_ that... but how can I face _that_ end - if, oh God, that _is_ the end - and keep any kind of grip on my mind?

Hate.  Hate.  It’s hard to feel it over the fear and horror but _I want them to pay_ _for it_ _all_ ten times over, a thousand, a hundred thousand...

“I’m starting to think”, he says, “that we should do this to every little Muggle that dares to walk into Diagon Alley.  _Then_ perhaps we’d find out how many of you really think yourselves worthy to mix with your betters.”

That’s... there’s no word for that.  _Sick_ doesn’t even get halfway there.

“And then, even if any were stupid enough to persevere, I don’t expect they would need too much reminding to make sure they stayed in their proper place...”

That line of excited first-years at Hogsmeade station flashes across my mind.  So eager, so innocent... what kind of society does he think he could create by torturing _children_?  And what sort of society honours someone who thinks like that?  It’s horrible.

And it’s so _unfair_.  Why didn’t anybody warn me?  I thought that getting high marks at school would let me do anything, that being top of my year would prove that I was as good as any born-and-bred witch.  But in the end all that effort got me was... this.  Would he even have noticed me if I hadn’t tried so hard?

I cry out as a Stinging Hex bites my shoulder.

I open my eyes, trying to keep my expression neutral.  I don’t know why I’m bothering, he’s going to tear me apart whatever I do... But not _now._   I can take this one moment at a time...

“Will you pay attention!” he snaps, then changes back to that cloying interrogative tone. “I want to know what you think... would _you_ have chosen to stay if someone had shown you the darker uses of magic?”

_drip... drip..._

At this moment, all I can think of is home.  Anything but here.  I’d walk back to the Muggle world without a backwards glance if it meant I would never have to face _him_ or that hideous Curse again.

Does that mean that I regret ever coming in the first place?

I... I don’t know.  Isn’t that what he wants me to think?

“I don’t know,” I repeat, barely audible.  Well, that’s near enough the truth...

He stands up and laughs down at me.  “Muggle schooling must be even worse than I thought if you’d rather have this.”

And tears blur my vision as I think of the corridors and classrooms at St Mary’s, where I would have been now if it hadn’t been for that letter from Hogwarts.  They’d even offered me a scholarship - the Headmistress was so annoyed when we turned the place down, especially when we wouldn’t tell her what she was second-best to.

But would it really have been second best?  She could never have compared to Professor Dumbledore, of course, and the idea of not learning magic pierces my soul, but there would still have been interesting lessons and good teachers and maybe even friends who _liked_ discussing schoolwork...

But not to have known Harry and Ron... I can’t bear that thought.

He frowns at me, and raises his wand.

_“No!”_ I shriek at him.  He _can’t_ do that again!

He lifts an eyebrow.

“No?” he repeats.  “So you have an answer for me now, do you?”

_Plenty of answers, you complete and utter evil_ bastard _.  Not that I’m stupid enough to tell them to your face._

I gaze at the sinuous spell-strands surrounding me. “All right...”  I lift my eyes to meet his.  He’s staring at me with a haughty sneer.

“Go on.”

“You’re right.  I wouldn’t have come.” I hate myself for saying it, but at this moment it’s nothing more than the truth.  If only I could just walk away and forget this place ever existed!  There’s no _way_ I’d have come to Hogwarts if someone had turned the Cruciatus Curse on me first.

The spell-strands twist and thicken.

_drip... drip... drip..._

“No,” he murmurs, turning his wand over in his hand. “A little pain soon puts paid to those Gryffindor heroics, doesn’t it?”

I _hate_ him!  Why does he have to rub it in?  I’ve given him the answer he wants!

_What if he doesn’t believe me?  What if he’s going to Curse me anyway?_

But he has to be able to see that I’m telling the truth!

And suddenly images of what-might-have-been tumble over each other as I see myself in St Mary’s library, pouring myself into my GCSE assignments, and my parents beaming at me when I get my results, and the joy of diving into the depths of the A-level curriculum (and no, it’s not Potions or Ancient Runes, but Chemistry and Latin aren’t so different, not really) and going up to Oxford and becoming a famous scientist or campaigning to change the world or being whatever I want to be with no-one to tell me I can’t because my damn blood isn’t pure enough...

I shake my head.  Must be the vervain, accelerating my imagination.  I need to focus on what is happening _now_ , not what could never happen.

He’s scrutinising me, a smile playing about his lips.

“Well.  Let’s put that answer to the test, shall we?”

What?

_drip... drip... drip..._

He walks away, around my feet, back towards me again on my right side. Sits down next to the cauldron.  Reaches into the pocket of his robe.  Brings out... a wand.

My wand.

I stare at him.  He sneers back.

“So, now that you agree that you should never have touched this in the first place, you’ll be quite happy to dispose of it, won’t you?”

_That’s not what I said..._

He touches it to the open wound in my arm.

“The word you’re looking for, Mudblood, is ‘Repudio’ _._ ”

_No.  I can’t do that..._

But what choice do I have?

He turns it so that it’s pointing along my arm towards my head.

“Of course, if a final demonstration of just what it can do to you would help...”

_I hate you, I hate you, I HATE you!_

How bitterly ironic that the one spell I can cast without actually holding my wand is the one that no one would ever want to cast anyway.

The wand twitches and he draws breath...

He’s _not_ going to Crucio me with my own wand!

_“Repudio.”_

My voice is dull and flat but carries enough conviction for a deep shiver to travel the length of my spine as a flare of incandescent silver travels the length of my wand.  It crumbles into yellow ash that floats down into the cauldron.

There’s a hollow empty place inside me as the tears roll down my face again.  I’m sure he’s revelling in the sight of me reacting like this, but I don’t care.  It would be so _wrong_ not to mourn that loss...

_drip... drip... drip..._

I shiver.  What on earth is he going to _do_ with that potion?

He stands up.

“Perfectly done, little one.  You’ve done your fellow Mudbloods a great service today.”

What?

“Well, you wouldn’t want anyone else to need the... tutoring that you’ve had, would you?  And as Dumbledore and his cronies aren’t about to tell upstarts like you about the consequences of insubordination, I’m sure you’ll be only too glad to serve as a warning.”

Serve as a warning? How? What’s he going to make me do? I _can’t_ let him bind me like that! I need to stay focused on who I am, where I am, what _I_ think, what _I_ feel. On how much I _hate_ him!

He paces back to the end of the bench. I hate every arrogant movement.

He gazes at me in unholy satisfaction.

“Now, little Mudblood,” he says, “there’s just one thing left to do before we draw this to a close.”

He brings up his wand with a horrible hungry gleam in his eye.

_NO! no no not that again please not that anything but that_

I try desperately to wrench myself free but it’s useless, of course.  The cold chill in my heart seeps out through my veins.  In this moment, all I’m aware of is him and me, all that matters is stopping him from casting that spell at me again... Why oh why oh why didn’t they _tell_ us about this evil?

“Well, I did promise that I would cherish every single second, little one.  And I really don’t think there have been quite _enough_ seconds yet to pay you back in full.”

“No! _Please_ don’t do that again! I’ll... I’ll do whatever you want...”

He smiles, an utterly condescending, lethal smile.  It’s useless. I _hate_ him.

“But of course you will. _Crucio!_ ”

hooks skewer my eyes, legs, hands heart _everywhere_  
_Noooo  stop stop STOP_ jagged metal dragging through muscle  
and bone and _I want to die_  
and I scream and scream as boiling liquid engulfs me and  
I _sense_ the darkness of unconsciousness creeping up -  
threshold of relief, or death _I don’t care_ I just   
want to get there but _nooo_ it recedes in burning red agony that   
strips away everything except the fucking _PAIN_ a rushing and roaring   
torrent dashing me to a bloody pulp again and again and again  
and _let me die!_ and I can see that blessed dark again and I reach for it   
but it’s whipped away as every inch of my body is flayed raw and  
there’s burning acid in my veins and  
_no no nononooo_ my toenails and finger nails are pulled slowly, slowly _oh God_  
pain exploding in my head and through  
every atom in my body like a bloody nuclear bomb  
I’m suspended in pure agony _stop stop stop_ but there’s no way out  
except that dark promise of nothing _oh please it come_  
and this time he lets it embrace me.

~

~

~

~

~

Hazy light.  Fuzzy voices.  Dizziness.

Dull throbbing agony in every bone.

Why, oh _why_ am I still alive?

The potion. That spell... What did he _do_?

And that... that...

_How long before that burning rending screaming_ hell _tears a mind apart?_

But at least I can think.  Just about.  And it _feels_ like it’s me that’s thinking.

_Well, it would, wouldn’t it?_

I don’t know.  I wouldn’t be able to think at all under some of those... curses.

But it does feel as if my mind, at least, is free.

So... if they weren’t trying to bind... me, then what...?

I keep my eyes closed and try to listen.

Small clattering noises.  No dripping.

_How much blood did they take?_

Too much.  I feel so weak, it’s all I can do to concentrate on what they’re saying.

“So it worked, then?”  Macnair’s voice.

“Now, Walden, surely you don’t mean that you thought it _wouldn’t_ work, do you?”

A pause.

“That’s not what I said.”

A quiet chuckle. _Smug bastard._

“Of course, we won’t really know until we see how it affects the Mudbloods.  But it’s certainly boiled down as it should.”

“So I can take her, then?”

“ _NO!_ ”

A long pause.

“But- but Lucius, I thought we had an agreement...”

“We have a _general_ agreement, Walden.  I don’t recall making a commitment regarding this particular case.”

Another pause.  Then a coarse laugh.

“Well, well, Lucius.  I never thought I’d see the day when _you’d_ be playing with a Mudblood bitch.”

“Don’t be disgusting!”

“So what do you want her for, then?”

Pause.

“She’s... interesting.  And I think I have a further use for her.”

“The Dark Lord won’t like it, you know.”

“And how, _exactly_ , do you envisage Him finding out?”

Another pause.

Then he speaks again.  “And besides, the Dark Lord may have authorised this little project, but \- as we are only too aware - it hardly lays claim to His undivided attention.  And even if it did, He’s never been one to be too concerned with... details.  You, for one, should be grateful for that.”

“Hmm.... you may have a point, Lucius.  But you still haven’t explained what makes thisone so different from all the others.”

That smug little chuckle again.  “Let me show you.”

His footsteps.  Coming towards me.  Followed a second later by a heavier tread.

_Oh God..._

“So, shall I wake her up?  Or are you going to insist on doing that yourself as well?”

“Oh, there’s no need for that, Walden.  She’s been awake for some time.”

His gloved fingers curl round my chin.  Trickles of ice slither down my spine.

“Look at me, Mudblood.”

I open my eyes.  Macnair is looking at me sceptically.  But as for _him…_ I can’t read him at all.

It’s hard to focus.  Too weary.  _How much blood did they take?_

I glare at them dully.  They should have killed me.

“See how much she hates me?” he says.  “It’s beautiful.”

“I prefer them when they’re screaming, myself.”

“Ah, but you never did appreciate subtlety, did you, Walden?”  He lets go of me.

Macnair snorts.  “So what does Narcissa know about this?”

A haughty glare.

“Narcissa trusts me.  I’ve never given her reason to do otherwise, and I’m not proposing to start now.  And besides,” he says dryly, “she has reason to appreciate the... side benefits.”

That coarse laugh again. “Power being the ultimate aphrodisiac, of course.”

His eyes narrow. “And you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

Macnair sucks in his breath. _He_ sneers.

“No, Walden,” he says, dangerously soft, “don’t fool yourself that sixteen years have made me forget _that_ little incident.  And if you want to make sure that the Dark Lord remains unaware of just how badly you messed up that particular assignment, I suggest you forget all about _her._ ”  He gestures at me.

Their eyes lock.

From my position I’m looking straight at their hands.  Both are clenching into fists.  Then Macnair shrugs.

“Well, if you put it like that, Lucius, I suppose I’d better leave you to it.”  He picks up a dragonhide satchel and clomps towards the end of the room behind me.  I hear a door slam.

He looks down his nose at me.

I stare back up at him. We’re alone again.  What’s he going to do to me _now_?

He walks over to the shelf.  When he returns, he has the knife in his hand.

He bends over my feet.  I flinch.

“Oh, do keep still, Mudblood,” he snaps.  And he slices through the rope.  He doesn’t speak or look at me again until all of it is lying on the floor.

I slump down on the bench.  The returning circulation is agonising, but I haven’t got the energy to move.

“Get up.”

I manage to swing my legs off the bench, but when I try to stand I collapse on the floor.

“I said, get up!”

I do try, but I _can’t_. How much blood did they take?

He crouches in front of me, and with two fingers he tilts my chin upwards.

“I’m going to give you a choice, Mudblood.”  He places a short length of rope on the ground between us.  “Now, if you really want to die, I’ll tie you to the bench again and tell Walden that you’re here waiting for him.  But I should warn you that it will be neither a quick nor a particularly pleasant death. Walden’s tastes can be rather... brutal.”

“Or,” and he puts the silver ring down beside the rope, “you can come with me.  Which is it to be?”

He withdraws his fingers and I stare at the two objects in front of me.  I’m so tired I just want to lie down and let it all _end_.  Part of me is so tempted to reach out for the rope... but I can’t forget the way that madman talked about me, the way he _looked_ at me... he’s almost like that hideous troll in first year.  But though the troll was vicious, that wasn’t... personal.  I was just there, and it attacked me because that’s what trolls do, not because it wanted to... do whatever Macnair...

Or...

He’s watching me intently, waiting to see what I’m going to do, curious... though there seems to be something there that goes beyond curiosity.

Could Macnair’s savagery really be worse than the Cruciatus Curse?  And now there’s no reason for him not to use it again... and, and, what else might he do?  Macnair was vile, but _his_ cold cruelty is terrifying on a completely different level.  And he has a ‘further use’ for me...  No – I _can’t_ face that again.

But that horrible hungry gleam in Macnair’s eyes.  All the horrible things he _said_ …

My head is spinning.  I can’t make sense of it.

I’m not really sure what makes me do it in the end - better the devil you know, I suppose.  Something flickers in those dark grey eyes as my fingers close round the ring.  Nothing else happens.

Must have been a one-way Portkey, then.  Or else the room is too heavily shielded. I slump to the floor.

“Get up, Mudblood.”  He stands and kicks the rope away.

I stare up at him.  Can’t he see that I _can’t_?

“I am not about to pollute myself by using Imperius on you,” he says. “You are going to get up and walk out of that door, and if you can’t stand up then you can crawl, but you are going to move, _now._ ”

Oh God...

I push myself onto my knees, support myself with my hands - I’m shaking with the effort.  I just about manage to move forward a few inches before my wounded arm collapses beneath me.

_How much blood...?_

He snorts in disgust and walks away.  I twist round, clutching at the ring in desperation.

“I _can’t_!” I gasp out. “Don’t leave me here!”

He turns and sneers.  “You threw yourself on my mercy, Mudblood.  What I do with you now is up to me.”

And he turns back to the shelf.  I hear the clink of a bottle on stone, the glug of a potion being poured.

I lie on my back, eyes closed.  I haven’t got the strength to move.

So how did he _expect_ me to walk out of here, when he was draining my blood?

_He didn’t._

I’m not sure which is worse - that he was going to let me die, or that he didn’t.

Footsteps.

I don’t react.  He can do whatever he likes.  I can’t even resist in this state.

My head rolls to the side as he pushes an arm behind my shoulders.

And then his other arm slides under my knees, and he picks me up.

My eyes fly open. Every muscle goes rigid. I try to roll out of his grasp, but after a few seconds I give up.  I haven’t got the energy to fight him.

“Relax, Mudblood,” he snaps, staring down his nose.  “If I’m going to hurt you, I’ll tell you about it first.”

My head falls back against his arm.  It’s strangely warm, more than I’d expected - like that snake.  The rough fabric scratches my cheek as he strides out of the room.  Away from the Anti-Apparition wards, I suppose.  I’m dimly aware of him closing the door and lighting his wand.

I should just reach out and grab it from him... but that’s a bit of a silly thought, really.

We reach the foot of the stairs... I think. He grips me tightly and there’s a sudden lurch that feels as if I’m being turned inside out and back to front  
and then everything is still and silent and black  
and I’m lying on my back, supported...

If only I could forget _whose_ arms are holding me… I’m so tired, and after all the pain and horror and helplessness of the last few weeks, it’s so nice just to be held…

_“Lumos.”_

I blink.  It feels like an age since I left this bleak stone room.  _That_ Hermione was a completely different person.  Even when she was reaching out for that ring, she could still allow herself to hope...

I’m still holding the ring, I realise.  I drop it as if it’s bitten me with an icy flame.

It bounces on the floor.  The high-pitched _ping_ is loud in the dead silence.

He glares at me, lip curled like it did at the Quidditch World Cup last summer, as if I was something the cat dragged in.  I tried to stare him down then... stupid, stupid me.  I thought I knew what he was, but really I had no idea...

And I let him bring me back here... What have I _done_?

I close my eyes.  I don’t want to know anymore.

He flicks his wand.  My aching body registers every tiny movement.

There’s an answering rustle of blankets and he lays me down on the bed.  Tears well up... the mattress feels so comfortable I could stay here forever.

Maybe I’ll have to.

_Oh God_...

Why didn’t he just kill me?

I open my eyes a fraction.  He’s bending across me, expressionless.  As he pulls up the blanket a strand of his hair brushes my hand.  My fingers close around it reflexively... he snatches it away.  I close my eyes.

“ _Don’t_ go to sleep, Mudblood.  We haven’t finished yet.”

_Oh, why don’t you just leave me alone?_

I hear footsteps, away across the room and back.  A faint clink.  The quiet rustle of his robes. A liquid pouring.  Silence.

I don’t care.

His wand slides down my cheek.  I still don’t care.

“I didn’t bring you down here just so you could die on me, Mudblood.  Now open your eyes and drink this before I _make_ you do it.”

I open my eyes and tilt my head towards him.  There’s a goblet between us, on a small table that wasn’t there before.

He pulls the wand away and slides the goblet towards me.

Yeah, right - does he really think that carrying me here and tucking me into bed will persuade me to touch _anything_ he gives me?  Fat chance.

“No,” he says, “it’s not what you think. I’m not about to waste that on you.”

_That_ being... oh, what he just took all my blood for, I suppose.  How charming of him.

“I said, _drink it_ , you little idiot.  It’ll make you feel better.”

A dull rage pounds in my head.  How _dare_ he pretend to care what happens to me after what he did up there?  I _won’t_ do as he says.  What else can he do to me now?

I fling out my arm and knock the goblet towards him. A thick red-brown liquid splashes down the front of his robe.

His face twists in fury. Suddenly his wand is aiming straight at me.

“Do you _want_ to die, Mudblood?”

I feel a flash of fear through the layers of weariness and pain.  Why did I provoke him?  I _know_ what he can do...

But he’ll do what he likes anyway.  I sink down, exhausted.

A muscle twitches in his left cheek. He lowers the wand.

He rights the goblet and mutters a Cleansing Charm under his breath. The mess on his robes vanishes. “You are so stubborn,” he sneers. “And so _very_ predictable.”  He brings out a small flask from his robe and smirks at me as he refills the goblet.

Smug bastard.  How much of that stuff did he bring with him?

He picks it up in his left hand and walks around the table.  In his right hand is the wand.  He fingers it thoughtfully.

“Perhaps you’re going to be more trouble that you’re worth after all,” he says. “When you asked to come with me, I did hope that your attitude might have improved.”

I didn’t _ask_ to come with him,I’d never do that! Just because I thought Macnair would be worse...

And maybe I was wrong about that.

“However, it appears that it hasn’t,” he continues.  “I wonder how much Cruciatus it would take to teach you some respect?”

_Oh God, please not that again..._   But I haven’t even got the strength to protest.

He looks down at his wand, and back at me.  “Or did you just think you’d get an easier death from me, was that it?”  He points the wand at my forehead and snarls, “It’s not going to be that simple, little one.”

But he _will_ kill me if he Crucios me in this state!  He has to know that!

He lowers the wand.

I stare at him numbly. He turns the wand over in his hand. His lip curls. Then he looks back at me.

He stands there for a few seconds, frowning... then he raises his wand.

_“Imperio.”_

ah... bliss...  
and there’s no pain at all... just floating along  
...I smile up at him as he hands me the cup  
such a good man to treat me so well...  
and it tastes a bit odd but it feels warm inside  
...so I drink it all down  
like he says I should do... and he’s holding me up  
with his mind around mine... so comfortable here  
in this beautiful calm...  
and I put down the cup as he tells me to do  
...lie back to rest and he starts to let go but he’s still holding on so I’m floating in bliss and can rest here secure... as the peace seeps down deep, in my bones and my blood

I whimper as the crashing wave of returning pain slams me against the bed.

He’s frowning, wand aimed straight between my eyes...

_“Dormio.”_

I fall into darkness.


	8. Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius extends his control over Hermione, closing off every avenue of resistance... except one. Or is it just part of the same trap?  
> When it comes right down to it, hope isn't a belief. It's a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here, at last, is the explanation of Lucius' behaviour so far. Part of the explanation, that is. It's a little complex in places, but that's mainly for characterisation purposes - so don't worry about following every little detail if magical theory isn't your thing. The important points should (I hope!) be clear.

Light. I screw up my eyes, try to focus.  So tired...

Light... Does that mean he’s here?

I don’t actually care that much.

I gaze blankly at the green canopy above me.  All this time I’ve been here, and this is the first time I’ve been able to look at it.

 _No great loss, really_.

I close my eyes and roll onto my side, facing the wall.  Every aching muscle protests the movement.

The rustle of cloth. Footsteps.  So he is here then.

I don’t have the energy to care.

Silence.

I suppose if I opened my eyes and rolled over, I’d see him standing over me, watching, or whatever else he’s doing so quietly.

But why would I want to do that?  I wish he’d just leave me alone.

He rips the blankets away.

“Get up!”

I don’t respond.  What else can he do to me after what... after...

“Don’t ignore me, you filthy little Mudblood!  Have you still not learned your place?”

_Oh, sod off._

An evil chuckle.  When he speaks again it’s like he’s spooning out treacle.

“38, Riverside Close.”

Oh God. _No._

I roll onto my back.  Open my eyes.  He’s leaning against the bedpost.  His horrible pale face is twisted in an even uglier grin.

“Leave my parents out of this.”

One eyebrow arches.

“They haven’t done anything to you!” I say desperately.

“Hmm.”  He makes a show of examining his fingernails.  “They spawned you, Mudblood.  That’s enough, as far as I’m concerned.”

My blood runs cold.

He smiles.

“Yes,” he drawls, “sometimes the only way to deal with a problem is to dig it out by its roots.  After all, it’s easy enough to find out when a Mudblood child is born - I fail to see the point in letting it live long enough to pose a threat.  Or to let its parents repeat the mistake.”

I should be shocked, but I just feel a dull weariness. That kind of talk is sick, but it’s stupid and tedious and I’ve heard it all before. 

“So why don’t you just kill me and have done with it?”

He purses his lips.  “Do you want me to?”

Our eyes meet.  I shiver.  He smirks.

“No,” he says, “I didn’t think so.  And perhaps I’ll indulge your foolish desire to stay alive for a little while longer - you’re safely under control here, after all. Your parents, on the other hand... Well. One of you is more than enough, Mudblood.  Why should I let them live to produce another?”

 _Oh God... Mum, Dad, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t know... no one told me I’d be bringing_ this _down on us when I answered that letter..._

I stare up at the velvet folds of the canopy, mind whirring frantically.  But how can I possibly counter ‘logic’ that is based on such blind hate?  And he has all the power, the bastard.  He could do what he likes out there, and there’d be nothing I could do about it, and I’d still be trapped here at his non-existent mercy.  God, I hate him.

“But in this case,” he says, “I’ll make you an offer.  If you can maintain a properly obedient attitude from now on, I’ll let your pathetic Muggle parents live.  What do you say to that?”

What _can_ I say?

“Why should I believe you?”

“Oh, there’s no reason why you should.  But I can promise you, Mudblood, that if you ever again fail to show me the respect to which I’m entitled, I will see to it that _they_ pay the price.  And somehow I don’t think you want to test me on that.”

There’s a nagging voice at the back of my mind, insisting that Mum would never want me to give in to him for her sake.  But this is my choice to make, not hers.  And there _is_ no choice.

“All right.”  Somehow I drag out the words.  Even to me, my voice sounds low. Lost.

The slightest of smirks, but other than that, nothing.

He raises an eyebrow, expectantly.  But I’ve no idea what it is he’s expecting.  What am I _supposed_ to do, in this situation?

“W- what do you want?”

“I’ve already told you what I want.”

What... oh.  Well, getting out of bed isn’t the worst he could ask of me, I suppose.  Though I’m aching so much that it rather feels like it.

I swing my feet onto the floor and stand up, swaying.  I almost fall across the small table that he left beside the bed yesterday – but he grabs my arm and shoves me across the room.  I reel against the chair in front of the desk, and cling to the back of it.  I suddenly feel rather light-headed. My mind just feels numb.

He walks around me, heels clicking on the stone.  He peers at me, eyes travelling down... and lingering at the level of my heart.  His lips twitch slightly.  I glance down.

Bastard.  I’d forgotten about that.

There’s a hole in my robe where he cut it yesterday, and it’s gaping slightly open.  I clutch the fabric together with my left hand. I can feel myself start to blush. I don’t know why - it’s not as if he hasn’t already seen much more of me than that.

“Hmm... it looks as if I’m going to have to get you another robe, doesn’t it?  But in the meantime, you really shouldn’t worry about that.” He lays his wand lightly on my left forearm. __

Why the hell can’t he leave me alone?  I raise my eyes to glare at him before I remember, and drop my arm.

_I hate you._

He smiles.  “Good.”

The smile vanishes.  He strides round to the other side of the desk, and points at the chair I’m leaning on.

“Sit.”

That’s something I’m all too willing to do, even though I’m bristling at his tone.  I’m starting to feel really faint now.

He Summons the goblet and pours in more of the thick potion that he gave me last night.  When he hands it to me I take it and drink it without a word. It tastes slightly metallic and it’s hard not to gag on the stuff, but it pushes away the dizziness as if it’s coating my veins with supporting steel.  I put the goblet down.

Perhaps a little too firmly - he frowns and leans across the desk.

“Now, let me make one thing plain, Mudblood,” he says coldly. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ve served your purpose.  It’s _nothing_ to me whether you live or die. For the moment I may find it more - amusing - to keep you alive, but it would be very, very easy to change my mind if you turn out not to be useful after all.  And in the meantime, I certainly see no reason not to punish you, should I need to, in _any_ way I see fit.”

My gaze wanders along the dark grain of the desk.  I don’t understand.  Why did he bring me back here if he hates me that much?

“Yes, little one,” he hisses, “there are things I could take from you so much more – painfully – than mere blood.”

I shudder, as Harry’s hushed description of Wormtail slicing off his hand flashes across my mind. I can’t look at him.  I feel like I’ve walked into a grotesque nightmare far, far blacker than what went before - at least there was some sort of purpose to that, however hideous.  But now... _No limits_ , is what he’s saying. He doesn’t have to answer to anyone - his little tiff with Macnair made that quite clear.  If he’s only keeping me for his own sadistic amusement...

Unless that’s just what he wants me to think?

“But you needn’t worry about that for the moment,” he says silkily.  “I have a different task for you today.”

I look up at him cautiously.  He reaches down behind the desk.  When he stands up, he’s holding a large book. It’s old and dusty and has spidery purple writing on the spine: _Mastering the Darke Arts ~ An Introduction to Thanatonic Magical Theorie._

But I don’t need to read it - I recognise it.  It’s the book I’ve been berating myself for touching ever since it landed me here.

So what does he want with it now?

“Now Mudblood, don’t tell me you’re not curious about our work together,” he says. “And after you performed so well, it would have been such a waste to let Walden… dispose of you.  So now I’m giving you a chance to prove your worth.”  He puts the book down in front of me.

I look at it.  I look back at him.  He laughs.

“What, you’re worried it’s going to whisk you off somewhere?  Do you mean to say you’d rather stay here?  I’m touched.”

As if after yesterday I’d choose to go anywhere he wanted to send me! Why does the bastard have to twist everything?

“No, Mudblood,” he continues, “you’re safe enough to read it, for now.  I’ll give you twelve hours to work it out.  I suggest you start with Chapter Three.”

He glances around the room.  With an arrogant wand-flick, he moves the small table into the empty corner of the room and conjures up the usual bowl of soup and two slices of bread.  This time there’s an apple beside the bowl.

Fruit.  I’ve never seen any fruit in this place.  Just to sink my teeth into something fresh...

He smiles, a malicious gleam in his eye.  “Just in case you feel strong enough to eat, Mudblood... and I do expect you to clean yourself up before I come back.  You’re covered in blood.  It’s really not very pleasant to look at.”

 _And whose fault is_ that _, exactly?_

“And just to show you that I’m not asking the impossible, I’ll leave you some light.”

He pauses, waiting for a reply.

“Thank you,” I answer, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

He smiles with vile satisfaction, and Disapparates.

And I draw my feet up onto the chair, put my arms around my knees and rock back and forth, staring at the wall.  It’s as hard and grey and bleak as the future.

How long is he going to keep me here?  What does he _want_ from me?

Maybe I’d feel better if I could cry, but I can’t.  It’s too awful.

The chair is creaking slightly as I rock.  I stop.  God knows what he’ll do if it breaks.

Silence.  Emptiness.  I feel hollow, and it’s not just from Repudiating my wand.

_You should never have done that._

But what choice did I have?  He was about to cast Cruciatus at me!

_He did that anyway._

And?  And the fact that the bastard can do that to me anytime it takes his fancy means I should volunteer for the experience?  I don’t think so!

I shiver.  Not only can he do whatever he likes, with that hanging over me he can make _me_ do whatever he likes, even without the threat to my parents.  It’s nothing more than the harsh clear truth.

It doesn’t bear thinking about.

I put my feet on the floor, lean my elbows on the desk and bury my face in my hands.  What am I going to do?

What is he going to _make_ me do?

I could just sit here and let the numbness creep over me, I could just keep staring at the shapes of the stones to keep my mind occupied so I don’t have to face this dreadful situation I’m in.

I don’t even need to think about the stones, actually.  I don’t have to think about anything.

_Yes, you do!_

Why? I could just withdraw so far into my head that he couldn’t reach me.

 _And then he_ would _go after Mum and Dad.  He told you to look at that book, remember?_

Oh God.  I suppose he’d even see death as disobedience, if for whatever twisted reason he wants to keep me alive.

I’m fenced in, any way I turn.  I _have_ to do what he wants, I can’t see any way to avoid it.  I hate him, I _hate_ him!

“Damn you!” I shout into the room, jumping to my feet. _“Damn you!”_

I throw myself at the wall and hit my fist against it.

_Ow!_

I slide down and curl up on the floor.

_Get a grip, Hermione. You have to deal with this!_

Deal with it?  How can I possibly _deal_ with it?

_You can hope._

Hope.  Right.  I gave up on that when he shut the door of that tower.  When hope gave up on me.

_If you don’t hope you’ll go mad.  And if you want to give your parents a chance, you have to stay sane!_

Meaning I have to keep enough of a grip on my mind to force myself to do what he wants?  Like that’s going to give me any hope...

This is impossible. Maybe if I provoked him enough he’d just kill me and have done with it. Surely the Order must be protecting my parents!

But I don’t really believe that - they obviously aren’t that bothered about what happened to me.  Well, I’m only a _Mudblood_ , aren’t I?  My parents don’t count for anything in _their_ world - why would _they_ care what happened to them?  Has anyone even told them I’m missing?

No.  I’m on my own.

And no way am I just going to give in.  When it comes down to it, hope isn’t a belief.  It’s a choice.

I push myself to my feet.  Okay.  So I have twelve hours - probably more like eleven-and-a-half hours, now - to eat, have a bath, and figure out whatever it is he wants me to figure out.   A bitter laugh echoes through my mind - well, I might as well read the damn book.  I’ve already paid the price for that bit of curiosity a thousand times over.

I rub my head.  I don’t really feel that hungry, but I suppose I should eat.  I’ll clean myself up first, though...

My eyes fall on the apple and for a moment I long to bite into it.  But no, I can wait.  I turn away into the bathroom, and turn the taps on full.

He’s probably put some kind of spell on it, anyhow.

_Yeah, right.  What do you think this is, Hermione?  Snow White?_

That’d be good - maybe I should just eat the thing, pass out and wait for the handsome prince to come and rescue me.

I grin to myself: it’s better to laugh than to cry.  And it’s true, the idea is absurd - why would he need to trick me into eating anything when he could just put me under Imperius or threaten me with Cruciatus... or with going after my family...

Though the bastard did say that he couldn’t stand using Imperius on a Mudblood.

_He did it though, didn’t he?  Twice now._

True, but the first time he just did it to show me he _could_.

_And the second time?_

I don’t know.  I was hardly in a fit state to remember much.  But... but... he almost seemed human for a moment.  Almost.

_Oh really?  Would that be before or after he drained your blood, made you Repudiate your wand and tortured you into unconsciousness?_

After.  After.  I don’t want to think about that.

I pull off my robe, breathe in the fragrant steam and sink into the bath.  The enveloping warmth brings tears to my eyes.  It should hurt more, my ankles and wrists should be screaming where the ropes rubbed them raw…

But they aren’t.  The skin there is slightly pinker than it should be, but not that vicious weeping red.  I touch the top of my head where he almost- no, where he _did_ pull my hair out.  It’s a little tender, but nothing like it should be.

The potion?  Judging by the taste of it, that was to restore the blood I lost  – _that he took_ – but I suppose it could have had a wider Healing effect.  Or perhaps he cast some Healing Charms while I was asleep.

_Oh, how very charitable of him._

But the thought nags at the back of my mind.  He could have just threatened me with Cruciatus when I refused to drink that stuff, he could have probably physically poured it down my throat-

 _He_ did _threaten you with Cruciatus._

But he didn’t _do_ it.

_Only because he knew it would kill you._

Okay.  Maybe that’s true.  But he still didn’t have to keep up the spell once I’d drunk the stuff.  And he did, I remember that.  He just held me in that blissfully pain-free state...

_Oh, for God’s sake, Hermione!_

I splash my face and scrub myself vigorously, until nothing is left of those marks he smeared on my chest and my feet except for red patches where I’ve rubbed the skin too hard.

But... if there’s even the slightest sign that he might start to see _me_ and not just some symbol of something he hates... it’s something to hope for, isn’t it?  And I do need to hope.

 _There is a_ difference _between hope and hallucination!_

I dunk my head in the water and knead the suds through my hair.

I wasn’t hallucinating.  I’m not saying he wouldn’t have preferred to do something horrible to me, but he didn’t seem to be… certain about it.  And then, he didn’t, in the end.

_Well, he made up for that just now, didn’t he?_

Mmm.  I don’t get it.  Maybe he’s just trying to be unpredictable.

_If that’s the case, he’s doing rather a good job of it._

Or maybe he’s trying _not_ to be unpredictable?  Maybe he was such a complete bastard just now because he wanted to make me forget his dithering yesterday.  To convince me that he could kill me without a second thought. Or... or maybe he just wants to convince himself...

_Yeah, right._

Oh, I can’t think about this any more, I’ll just go round in circles.  And why am I worrying so much about what he thinks, anyhow?  I need to get on with looking at that book so he doesn’t go mad at me when he gets back.

I haul myself out of the bath and reach for a towel. There’s a new robe lying next to it, I see with relief. Even down here, I feel a tiny bit better for having a bath and clean clothes.  Every little thing helps...

So, first I’ll eat, then I’ll tackle that book on a full stomach.

I close the bathroom door behind me and walk towards the table with the soup and the bread and the apple.

_You can’t go over there!_

What?

I shake my head.  Where did that thought come from?  There’s nothing in the corner except the food.

But... I don’t know.  I just have this feeling that something dreadful will happen if I go any closer to it.  Better to stay where I am.

This is stupid.  I have to eat.

_NO!  It’s not safe!_

That’s ridiculous.

But it doesn’t _feel_ ridiculous.  My hands are clammy with sweat.

Damn him! Is this another of his twisted little games? What kind of spell has he put on me? Now I know why he was smiling at me so evilly when he mentioned the food.

I hate him.  I will not let him do this to me!

My anger allows me to push forward another metre before the hysterical screaming in the back of my mind forces me to stop.

I’m shaking.  And I _know_ that if I take two steps further...

What I know is that this has to be his doing.  The bastard is trying to mess with my mind, and I can’t give in to it. I know I’m hungry, and I know there’s no _reason_ for me to be afraid to walk over to the table and pick up that juicy apple...

But as I step forward, liquid fire lances up my spine and a scream rips through me. I fall to the floor, gasping.

 _I can’t do it, I can’t.  It’s not worth it.  Nothing’s worth_ that _._

A steel whip lashes across my hands, my wrists, my arms-

I back away on my hands and knees. No visible sign of anything.  I rub my arms, shuddering.

_God, I wish I was safe at home…_

And suddenly I catch sight of a dark line on the floor between the table and me, arcing from the wall in front of me to the wall on my right, its smooth curve clear against the angular flagstones. That wasn’t there before, I’m sure of it.

I peer at it, keeping my distance.  It seems to be some kind of... powder?

I crawl closer, wincing at the spasms juddering up my arms.  Yes, it’s definitely some kind of powder, a dark red-brown colour. The closer I get, the more overpowering is that terrifying sense that I need to _go back._

I blow at it, hard, but it’s stuck in place.  No way to avoid stepping over it, then, if I want to eat.

But I _can’t._ It’s as if the tendrils of the Cruciatus Curse are reaching towards me again, to pull me in and devour me...

I scramble backwards. I just want to get as far away from that line as I can.

I’m glad he’s not here.  I’m sure this would really appeal to his warped sense of humour.

So... well, why isn’t he here, then?  Considering what he’s been like before, I’d have thought he’d have wanted to watch me discover his little trick.

Though perhaps that would have made the trap too obvious.  He must have meant for me to encounter it completely unprepared.

Why?

 _“I’ll give you twelve hours to work it out,”_ he said.

I frown: has this got something to do with what he did to me yesterday?

It must have.  If I can go over everything he did, perhaps I can work it out...

I can’t go there.  All I want to do is forget that.

What was it he _said_ , then?  Nothing but his usual vicious condescension when he was talking to me, but what about what he said to Macnair?

_“Of course, we won’t really know until we see how it affects the Mudbloods.  But it’s certainly boiled down as it should.”_

Boiled down... Is that stuff on the floor...?

_“...until we see how it affects the Mudbloods.”_

It has to be the residue from that damned potion. Somehow, it’s _radiating_ all the horror and pain and despair I was feeling yesterday.

A slow-burning rage wells up inside. He’s testing it on me! Damn him!

But... if that fear, that excruciating pain, is connected to the powder, not the food, that means I’d be okay once I crossed the line, doesn’t it?

_Does it? Why take the risk when you’re better off where you are?_

I have to try _._ All I have to do is get across that line and I’ll have proved that his vile spell won’t work.

_Oh, and then he’ll be happy with you, won’t he?_

I- I don’t know.  He did leave me the food, after all.  He could just as easily punish me for not eating it if I _don’t_ cross the line.

What does he want me to do?

 _“Work it out,”_ is what he said.

Right.  And he left me a book and a line of dried blood to work from.  So he can’t criticise me for investigating that line from every angle, can he?

I swallow.  I _really_ don’t want to go anywhere near it.  And… it doesn’t want me anywhere near it, either.

Perhaps if I take a run at it, I could be past the line before it has a chance to affect me?

I walk back to the bathroom door, but even here I’m trembling and my throat is dry.  Almost as if focusing on the line is giving it more power, letting it extend its reach...

_Stop thinking like that!_

And I _run_ , I run as fast and as heedlessly as I can towards the food.

But if I do it I’ll have that fire slicing through me and those hooks tearing into my limbs and I know I can’t bear that, wasn’t yesterday enough I can’t I can’t I _can’t!_

I skid to a halt just short of the line.

_Damn!_

I sink to the floor and bang my fists on the stone.  I can’t do it, I can’t do it!  But I _can’t_ let him win...

_He already has.  He won yesterday when he used you to make that bloody potion._

No.  There _has_ to be a way round this.

I grab the goblet from the table, march to the sink and wrench the tap.  Goblet filled, I approach the line again.

_– but blood is thicker than water, don’t you know that?  And there’s nothing you can do about it…_

_No!_

I throw the water across the flagstones to sluice away the powder

But a cloud of rusty steam engulfs me and it’s fire and ice and pain and _I can’t breathe_ and I run back into the bathroom and slam the door because _it’s not_ _safe out there_

It’s okay, it’s okay, it didn’t do anything.

 _But I’m_ not _going out there!_

It takes a few minutes for the panic to subside.  I’m okay, okay, okay.  No lasting damage.  I can get through the bathroom door.  I can.  But I’m not going anywhere near the line.  Not without seeing what that book might have to say about it first.

I sit at the desk - his seat, but the light is a little better in this position, and he didn’t say I couldn’t - and stare at the cracked leather cover, etched with the faint flourishes of a faded silvery crest.  It’s pretty battered for a wizard book - either it’s been used so much that the usual preserving charms are wearing off, or there’s some powerful magic bound within the book itself.

I know he said it was safe, but, well, that was him, wasn’t it?  It doesn’t make me feel any better about opening it.

But I can’t just sit and stare at it until he comes back.  He’d kill me.

_Poor choice of words, Hermione._

I shake my head and quickly open the cover before I can think about it. Nothing happens.

He wasn’t lying about that, then.

I examine the title page.  So, this is an ‘IntroductiontoThanatonic Magical Theory’, whatever that is.  I smile ruefully - I recognise _that_ sort of statement.  I’ve spent enough time in libraries to be more than familiar with disingenuous academic claims that a 1247-page tome written in language that only experts understand could be an ‘Introduction’ to anything.

But this is the sort of thing I’m _good_ at.

_So, let’s get started.  Chapter Three, he said._

I push back my sleeves and pull the book towards me.

I have to laugh, bitterly, when I see the chapter title. _On the Use of the Revenge Response to Drive Second-Derivative Hagalaz Vectors._   It’s one of those I flipped through when I was desperately searching for a way out in the few minutes before _he_ turned up.  If only I’d looked at it properly, tried to make sense of the runic scribbles, perhaps I’d have had some warning about what he was trying to do...

And perhaps he wants me to think that, wants me to turn that frustration in on myself.  I would never have had the time to read it then, let alone work out what it was on about.  It still looks like gobbledegook.  And I have - what? - ten, eleven hours to figure it out.

_Better get on with it, then._

I plough on. __

 _A Note on The Application of Hagalaz Vectors,_ I read.

**_Hagalaz ~ The Power Of Deep Reshaping, Having The Potential To Transform Or Destroye._ ** _It well behoves the serious student of Thanatonic magic to familiarise herself with the multitudinous uses of the Hagalaz Field and its Vectors. For she who seeks Mastery of the Darke Arts, a sound understanding of the manner in which the Desyres and Emotions combine to determine the Vector state will enable her to command the forces of Order and Chaos.  Those fearless soules who walk the bridge between the Dark and the Light must understand that the slightest imbalance of the mind can alter the Vector Derivatives to unexpected and parlous effect.  The moste common emotional conjunctions are given below, in Dolohovian Notation._

It doesn’t make a lot of sense.  But then these things never do on first reading.

I scan the text for concepts I do understand: Transform or ‘destroye’...  Imbalance of the mind... Parlous effect?

I don’t like the sound of that at all. And I have no idea how it relates to that potion. But perhaps that will start to become clear, if only I can work out what this is going on about.

I screw up my forehead and examine the runic equations. My mind is sluggish \- it’s been too long since I’ve had this sort of problem to work on, and I wish I had a quill.  But it is rather a relief to lose myself for a while in the clear abstraction of trying to balance Isa against Ehwaz instead of weighing up how to avoid provoking him.

It takes me a while to get them all straight.  I’m definitely out of practice - they don’t allow this much time when sitting OWLs.  But then they don’t set this sort of problem at OW-Level, either. I feel a familiar thrill of achievement at the thought – it’s so satisfying to have solved a problem, especially one that people don’t expect you to grasp.  I bet that smug bastard wasn’t expecting me to work it out - I can’t wait to see his face when he finds out that I have.

Well, actually I’d be happy never to see that ugly sneering face again.  And I still need to figure out how he _applied_ this.

Assuming he’s not just sending me up the garden path.

From what I can make out, what the book refers to as a Hagalaz Field is the potential range of reactions someone can have to a traumatic experience, and the Hagalaz _Vector_ controls what the actual reaction will be. As it’s a vector, it has both a size \- the more intense the experience and the more receptive the person’s mind, the bigger the vector - and also a direction, which seems to indicate whether the experience is more likely to destroy or transform.

Destruction is noted as the positive direction, I notice.  What else would you expect from a Dark Arts book?

Although... isn’t the same thing true of physics? I’ve been reading around the GCSE syllabuses when I’ve been at home, though last summer there wasn’t much time for that, of course.  But I remember my know-it-all cousin John going on about how the Universe is gradually running down into a more disordered state - because entropy always has to increase, or something.  Anyhow, the point being that moving towards _order_ is the ‘negative’direction, and it has to be offset by greater _dis_ order elsewhere.

Well, having seen Ron’s room and Harry’s trunk, I’m not going to argue with that one.

But... I screw up my forehead.  Going back to Hagalaz Vectors, if they’re at all like entropy, would that mean that Dark Magic - or this type of Dark Magic, at any rate - just taps into a natural tendency towards decay?

Taps into... and hastens along.  Or twists out of all recognition.

But whereas entropy is a property of physical systems, Hagalaz Vectors work on the mind.

But how?  I stare at the lines of equations.

And I feel my understanding shift, as if dawn is breaking over a broad valley and only now bringing light to how everything fits together.  The sudden rush of clarity is exhilarating - it always is - but there’s a murkiness to it, as well.  Not in the logic, but in the meaning of it.

The ‘First Derivative’ shows the rate of change of a basic Hagalaz Field - basically how quickly an experience - or, more accurately, a person’s reaction to the experience - moves her towards destruction or transformation.  And the Second Derivative... that represents the rate of change of change, as it were.  In other words, it’s the second derivative that can slow or speed the path to destruction.

And that’s what this chapter is about: now I understand what it means when it talks about the _‘Use of the Revenge Response to Drive Second-Derivative Hagalaz Vectors’._   That list of ‘emotional conjunctions’ is simply a list of how to manipulate someone’s emotional responses to destructive effect.

Well, a lot of Dark Magic does run off negative emotions, I already knew that. Probitaserum, for one, wouldn’t work if it weren’t for that principle.  Not to mention Cruciatus.

Revenge, according to the equations, always tends towards destruction, no matter whether it arises from ruthless ambition or, say, a maternal protective instinct.  But its strongest complements - the emotions that drive the Hagalaz Vector most surely towards destruction - are fear and hate.

Hate.

But hate is all that’s kept me sane since the day he brought me here!

A cold chill creeps over me, a chill that has nothing to do with the absence of a fireplace.

 _“See how much she hates me?”_ he said to Macnair yesterday _._ So smug, so _satisfied_... __

Oh God.

He wanted me to hate him.

 _“Don’t you want_ revenge, little one?”  
“Revenge is so sweet _\- don’t you agree?”  
Chapter Three: On the Use of the Revenge Response..._

No wonder he always looked so bloody smug!  All that time I thought he was just indulging his stupid pureblood prejudices, but he was deliberately manoeuvring me into the exact state he wanted for his bloody _spell._ All those snide remarks about what I know and what I don’t, his mocking condescension every time I reacted to what he did to me, the way he held back from crushing me with Cruciatus at the start, so that I wouldn’t despair and lose the _will_ to hate him...

_Now you know why he’s been such a complete and utter bastard._

Or maybe that was just because he _is_ a complete and utter bastard.

_Is that a logical assessment, Hermione, or are you just saying that because you hate him?_

Stupid question!  Of course I hate him!

Oh.

Oh _shit._

I was lost before I even entered that tower. I hate him for what he’s done to me.  _Hate_ him.  But that exactly how the bastard wants me to react.  He’s trapped me in my own reactions - and I hate him for that, as well. How could I have been so stupid?

_Yeah, well, everything’s clearer with hindsight, isn’t it?_

But I don’t understand why _._   If he wants to destroy me, there are far easier ways to do it.

Or is that all part of what he said he wanted to use me for?  Can he do something _else_ by putting me in that state?  But what?  I can’t see it... and even if I could...

What on earth am I going to do?

I twist my hands in my hair as if the pain will help me to think clearly.  But I don’t _want_ to think about it, I just want to scream and scream until the sound bounces round the walls and drowns out the chatter in my mind.  Anything I can do plays into his hands.  Screaming probably plays into his hands.  There’s nothing I can do. Completely bloody powerless.

_You are NOT powerless._

But what can I _do_?

_Look at the stupid book, you idiot!_

But the book only describes what drives the Vectors towards destruction, not how to stop them, or push them back the other way.  Strange.

Well, maybe not so strange, for a book on Dark magic.

But it must be possible, surely? What was it that Professor McGonagall said once? _“Remember, class, any transformation is possible, given enough skill or power.  Some workings just take a little more effort than others.”_

Transfiguration is less subtle - well, more tangible, anyhow - but I would think the same principle holds. It’s just a question of reversing the direction of the Hagalaz Vector, so that it tends towards transformation rather than destruction. Which means reversing the Second and First Derivatives to drive it that way.

It _has_ to be possible.

I stare at the equations in front of me.  If those are the kinds of emotions that drive towards destruction, presumably it’s their opposites I need to harness.

_Oh, come on.  Don’t say this is all about the transforming power of love, or something stupid like that.  Like if I don’t hate him, he’ll suddenly decide that Muggleborns aren’t so bad after all, betray Voldemort and we’ll all ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after?_

Right. Back in the real world, the only thing _he’s_ going to transform into is worm-food, and unfortunately that doesn’t seem about to happen any time soon.  And anyhow, the Vectors I’m concerned with act on me, not him.

Besides, the opposite of love isn’t hate, it’s indifference - hours of listening to Ginny obsessing about Harry has taught me that much.

So what _is_ the opposite of hate?  And what sort of ‘transformation’ would it lead to?

_Well, that’s inherently hard to predict, isn’t it? As the book says, the ‘slightest imbalance of the mind can alter the Derivative to unexpected and parlous effect...’_

I shiver.  But what choice do I have?  It’s either that or let him force me down into a spiralling pit of hate until I tear myself apart.

And when it comes down to it, if I do manage to reverse what he’s doing, I’m not exactly likely to live long enough to worry about ‘transformation’, am I?  And even if he lets me live, it’s not as if I’m going to come out of this completely unchanged anyway.  No. It’s stopping the destructive aspect of it that I need to focus on.  On not letting him use me any more.

So. It’s not really an exact opposite I need, just something that’ll have the opposite effect.  _Acceptance,_ is the first word that comes to mind.

_Oh, wonderful.  It’s not as if I’ve ever shied away from difficult tasks, but that one is frigging impossible._

It’s a choice, that’s all.  I chose to focus on hate.  I canchoose to react differently now.

 _And maybe I’d be playing right into his hands again. Maybe that’s what he_ wants _me to do._

But he couldn’t use trying to understand against me, if I was acting with integrity, could he?

_I don’t know._

I didn’t think that focusing on hate to try to get through the pain would rebound on me either. How can I work out what he’s up to?

Hmm.  Looking at it logically, his gloating over my hatred of him - and especially the way he goaded me about revenge when I had his wand - makes me think that he does want me to hate him, that he’s showing me the book to make me understand the trap he’s forced me into, so he can use my awareness to stoke up yet more hopeless, powerless hate. Anything else would be too complicated - and why would he want to reverse everything he’s done up till now?

But then, logic and simple explanations aren’t exactly defining characteristics of the wizarding world.  Certainly not when it comes to the purebloods.

Perhaps I should just act as if I really am reacting that way.  Then I could watch him to see if he tightens the net or pushes me to escape it.

_But wouldn’t he just pretend to react in the way he wants you to think he’s reacting?_

Then at least I’d know what he wants me to think – and what he wants me to do. __

_Or what he wants you to think he wants you to do._

This isn’t getting me anywhere.  He’s only going to fake his reaction if he knows I’m being dishonest, isn’t he?  He can’t read me that well!

_He’s done a pretty good job so far._

But I didn’t understand what he was trying to do, before.

 _And you do now? What on earth makes you think you can read_ him _?_

Well…

He’s been manipulating people since before you were born!  Do you really think you can match him at his own game?

But there has to be some advantage to hiding what I’m really up to! What he doesn’t know, he can’t make use of.

_That’s a Slytherin way of thinking._

Well, this horrible manipulative game is a Slytherin situation, isn’t it?

_What are you on about?  There’s no such thing as a Slytherin or Gryffindor situations!  There are only situations, and Slytherin or Gryffindor ways of dealing with them._

Oh God.  Is that the trap he’s setting?  Is he trying to make me mirror his own snake-like tendencies?  What can I do?

 _Use Gryffindor strength, not Slytherin stealth. Stop_ reacting _to him. Start from your own sense of right and wrong - then he won’t be able to draw you in._

Hmm... And also, that would be the last thing he would be expecting, assuming he could understand the concept in the first place.

 _That isn’t the_ point!

All right, all right.  But how can I act with integrity and _not_ hate the bastard?  Especially when he keeps pushing me like this.

I glare over at the food - and that treacherous line on the floor.

That’s what this is all about, it has to be. All that manipulation wasn’t just for his own amusement - though I’ll bet he was enjoying himself all right - it was all leading up to... yesterday.  The potion.  The spell.

But what did that spell _do_?

_You know what it did._

Yes.  I look along that dark curve and shudder. Whatever way it worked, it seems to have poured everything I was feeling at the time into that residue of potion and blood.

But why?  What’s he doing to do with it?

My blood - and a dragon’s.  What _is_ the Thirteenth Use of dragon’s blood, anyhow?

I scan the book’s contents’ page, but there isn’t anything obviously related to dragon’s blood.  And there isn’t an index - there could be a magical one, I suppose, but it doesn’t do me much good without a wand.

So, either the ‘Thanatonic’ branch of the Dark Arts doesn’t use dragon’s blood directly, or...

Oh.

Didn’t he say that the book belonged to his grandfather?  And that it was Voldemort who had developed the Thirteenth Use?  Making the rather large assumption that he was telling the truth about both, this book was written too early to be useful here. Although someone could have made notes in the margins, or something.

But a careful search reveals nothing.  Nothing in a language I can understand, anyhow.

There _must_ be a clue somewhere!  How am I supposed to work it out, otherwise?

 _You’re assuming he_ wants _you to work out all the details. Isn’t it more like him to gloat because you_ can’t _work it out?_

I sigh.  That’s all too likely.  But either way, I don’t suppose there’s much I can do except wait and see if he’ll tell me.

Unless there’s something else in the book, something I’ve missed?

How much time do I have? I run my fingers through my hair, scan the pages.  But I can’t take it in.  The writing is nearly indecipherable in places, and the runic equations... I’m not sure how much of it I _could_ work out, even if I had a couple of days to do it.  And I just don’t have that kind of time.

I can’t take it in... my vision is blurring and my mind is filled with cotton wool.  I thought words were supposed to make things clear… I _ought_ to be able to see it, but those obscure spidery scribblings scuttle away from all my attempts to shed light on their meaning. 

I lean over the desk and cradle my head in my arms.  

I can’t do it. I don’t understand how someone would even begin to think about how to _use_ this.  Perhaps I just need to try a little harder, once I’ve rested for a few minutes.  Or perhaps only a Dark wizard could understand it, after all…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised after finishing this chapter that I'd indulged in one of my pet hates - namely hanging a crucial plot point on non-canonical magic. However, as emotion-driven magic, runes and vectors (in a way) crop up in canon, I hope I haven't gone too uncomfortably astray. Basically, I wanted something sufficiently complex for it to be plausible that [Lucius would expect] Hermione to struggle with it. Be assured that I'm not writing the rest of the story in this vein, though the theory (and its application) will feature in the next chapter.
> 
> For anyone interested in the background, the use of runes in equations was inspired by Resmiranda's awesome [Like Shadows on the Winter Sky](http://www.fanfiction-junkies.de/efiction/viewstory.php?action=printable&textsize=0&sid=2129&chapter=all), though 'my' equations are not Arithmancy but a formalised application of the Dark Arts theory learned by Lucius in Chapter 2 of my (joshed and abandoned) [A Bitter Road to Hell](http://www.fictionalley.org/authors/chthonia/ABRTH02.html). I conceived that theory due to my belief that the old wizarding families wouldn't define themselves as 'evil', so I needed a way of defining Dark magic as different from Light magic. What I came up with was the idea that Light magic is driven by the instinct for life and a desire for union, with Dark magic characterised by dissociative, 'negative' emotions. (By this definition, Effundus is a Dark spell, as will be seen in Chapter 9.) This branch of Dark Arts theory I named 'Thanatonic' (heck, I needed a title for the book, didn't I?) after Freud's concept of an instinctive drive to destruction/self-annihilation (Freud, _Beyond the Pleasure Principle_ ).
> 
> Ah, the joys of fictitious magical theory! Perhaps I need to get out more? ;-)


	9. Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione reaches for some control over the situation. But, as she learns more about how Lucius plans to use her, will she even be able control her own reactions?  
> And will he?

I blink groggily in the dim light.

Have I been asleep? For how long? I need to work out what he was doing with the dragon’s blood!

There’s an odd warm weight on my shoulder. It disappears as I raise my head.

“Sleeping when you should be studying, Mudblood?” he asks coldly.

Was that his _hand_ on my shoulder?

I twist round to look at him. But there’s no expression on his face, except for an arched, mocking eyebrow.

“Dear me, that really isn’t the way to impress your teachers, is it? Stand up.”

I do, rubbing my neck and staggering a little. I hadn’t realised I was so tired. What was I reading just before I fell asleep? I’m sure it was important, or perhaps I’d just thought it was going to be important, or...?

Oh God. I’ve run out of time! And I still don’t _understand._

He points at the other chair. I take my place. He settles into his, smiling languidly over steepled fingers.

“So, let’s start again, shall we? Good evening, Mudblood.”

I stare at him.

“Is it? I mean... Good Evening.” I wind a strand of hair round my finger and tug slightly, willing myself awake. This is bizarre. What’s he playing at _now_?

He makes an ostentatious flourish with his wand, and two goblets appears on the table. He picks one up and takes a sip.

“Would you care for a drink, Mudblood?”

What? Is he bored of being a complete bastard, or does he just want to feed me another noxious potion?

“I-”

He shrugs elegantly. “Have it your way.” He flicks his wand and the goblet on the table vanishes. Then he reaches forward and closes the book with a thud, stroking down the spine with one long black-clad finger.

“So,” he murmurs, “have you finished your assignment? I’ve so been looking forward to hearing what you have to say about it.”

I swallow, dry mouthed.

“I... I... May I ask a question?”

“No.”

“But... but there’s nothing in the book about dragons-”

“I said, _no_ ,” he snaps. “You can tell me what you think, and I will tell you if you’re wrong. Lessons always leave a more lasting impression when you’re - corrected - than if someone just tells you the answer, don’t you find?” He grins at me, twirling his wand in his right hand.

No, he obviously _isn’t_ bored of being a complete bastard. What am I going to say?

“Assuming,” he continues, “that you haven’t been sleeping all this time? Because if you really have nothing to contribute to a civilised discussion, I’m sure we could find an alternative means of approaching the matter…”

Sod him! I’ll show the bastard!

“You induced a... background imbalance, to produce a complementary emotional conjunction that would drive the Second-Derivative Hagalaz Vector in the degenerative direction,” I say flatly, employing the terse language of formal runic analysis. I could just as easily have said _you made me hate you, you bastard, and scared me so much I couldn’t even think straight so that I’d respond in whatever way you wanted to whatever you said or did to me._ But I’m fed up of him patronising me. Two can play at that game, and over the last few hours I’ve seen more than enough convoluted words to give me the terminology I need.

He blinks, and stares for a moment.

Then, “Why?”

“To polarise my Hagalaz Field into its destructive state, in order to allow you to derive the emotional outputs you required.” _So you could make me feel that I shouldn’t have come here, that the School hadn’t been fair when they didn’t tell me about people like_ you, _so that I’d even Repudiate my_ wand _..._

“For what purpose?”

“So those emotions could be imprinted in the residue of the potion.”

“How?”

“The Effundus spell.”

“Which does what?”

“Well... Isn’t _that_ what it does?”

“Explain.”

“I- I don’t know.”

“Not good enough, Mudblood. Hold out your hand.”

He smiles – a horrible anticipatory smile – as I slide my left hand across the desk towards him. But the touch of his wand trailing across my fingers is light, leaving only a faint tingling.

“You missed something, little one,” he says quietly, tracing small circles in the centre of my palm. “Did you try to cross the line?”

“Y-yes.”

“So tell me, was it just ‘emotional conjunctions’ you felt?”

“No.” That tingling sensation is starting to tickle.

“Go on. And _don’t_ move your hand.”

“It was...” I shudder. It was like walking straight into the Cruciatus Curse. I don’t even want to think about that.

“Pain?” he murmurs.

I nod.

“Anything else?”

“I... I just felt I shouldn’t go there.”

He smiles at me. “Excellent.”

A sharp _crack_ slices across my palm. I gasp and snatch it back. At least there’s some warning, a split-second to prepare, when someone hits you physically.

“Leave your hand where it is, Mudblood. We haven’t finished yet.”

I push my hand jerkily back across the desk. My fingers are curled slightly, and he pushes them down against the wooden surface with his wand. There’s a red line rising across my palm where the hex hit.

“Inducing the destructive Hagalaz state actually had two functions,” he says, drawing his wand along the line on my hand. “One was as you... _guessed_. The other was to drive the Effundus spell itself.”

Another whiplash across my palm. I can’t completely suppress a yelp of pain, but I force myself to keep my arm still.

“You aren’t going to _forget_ that, now, are you?” he says, tracing over the rising new welt on my shaking hand.

“N- No.”

“So, little one. Tell me how the spell works.”

Oh God. I haven’t a clue!

_Think it through, Hermione._

I force myself to go over what happened, to visualise those blue-green strands of sparkling light moving down, _through_ his wand and my head and my heart and my limbs and my mouth and down towards the cauldron.

“It linked... us, in some way...” I say slowly.

His eyes narrow in a sharp glare, but then he relaxes. “Hmm. I suppose it did. Why?”

“So you could direct the Vector?”

“Of course. But you fail to mention that convenient side-effect of making you even more sensitive to everything I said to you from then on.”

_Crack._ Another line of pain from out of nowhere, cutting across the other two. I blink back tears and grip the dented wooden edge of my seat tightly, where he can’t see it. I _will not_ show him weakness.

“Ah, yes,” he muses. “You do react so expressively _..._ But do go on.”

Go on? What did that spell _do?_

_Effundo - I pour..._

“So... the spell transferred... what I was _feeling...”_ _-_ God, it’s so hard to talk about it like this - “... into the potion.” That much is clear, I think. But he said that the Hagalaz Field _drove_ the spell. How?

_Destruction... Imbalance of the mind..._

And then I see it. It wasn’t precisely _me_ that the destructive power was aimed at.

“For the spell to carry my... reactions to the cauldron, it had to separate them from... me?” I say, following the links along that corroded chain of logic. “You used the destructive Hagalaz field to break the _connection_.”

And how long does that effect last _?_ Are my emotions still spinning off to God-knows-where? 

No. It was the spell that did that. Wasn’t it?

“Very good, Mudblood,” he drawls. “But you needed rather too much help with that.”

I cry out as his hex whips across my hand again. Precisely on top of the last one. When is he going to _stop_ this?

“How do you expect me to remember anything when you-”

“Shut up! And you can stop whining, unless you want me to give you something to really scream about.”

He trails his wand along the welt. Even that light touch is enough to make me shudder. I fix my eyes on the dense grain of the desk, on the roughly-cut pages of the closed book…

“Now, little one. I do believe you were going to ask me about dragon’s blood. You should be able to answer your own question now, hmm?”

I blink, caught off-guard by the sudden change in subject.

Or is it? If the Effundus spell acted to split off my responses, then dragon’s blood...

“It’s a binding agent. So... it must have joined... the feelings... to the potion.” I can’t help glancing at that line on the floor. Dried blood and waves of pain... 

“Not quite, Mudblood.”

Again that whipcrack hex. And this time I scream. My skin is raw where the red lines cross, if he goes on like this it’s going to start bleeding and still he sits there impassively insisting I submit to this...

He glares me into silence. His lips are pressed into a thin line.

“I thought I told you to be quiet?”

Oh God, what’s he going to do now?

“I... I’m sorry.” _Please let that be enough._

I hang my head. Perhaps he’ll take it as a gesture of contrition, though really it’s the apology I’m ashamed of.

“You will be.”

At least with my head bowed I don’t have to look at his face as he sneers at me. He’s such a complete and utter... He obviously revels in hurting me - why does he have to pretend that anything I do or say will make a difference to that? 

“So, do you remember me saying that the Dark Lord had developed a thirteenth Use for dragon’s blood?”

“Yes.”

He laughs. “Of course, as it’s really a variant application of the Sixth and Twelfth Uses, it’s perhaps a slight exaggeration to classify it separately. I’ve never quite determined whether He did that to lord it over Dumbledore, or if He just felt an affinity with the number thirteen.”

I stare at him. Did he really just say that? He’s... he’s a... Death Eater. Isn’t he supposed to grovel admiringly at the Dark Lord’s feet?

He stares at me icily. “But still, Mudblood, it _is_ very apt to call it the Thirteenth Use. You are aware, I presume, that half of the Twelve Uses relate to Binding Spells. The others are more diverse, but could loosely be said to do the opposite.”

He pauses. He seems to be waiting for a response, so I nod. I suppose he wants me to act as an attentive audience for his little lecture, and anyhow, listening to him is better than having him hex me.

“The Thirteenth Use, then, combines the two. He perfected the technique in Albania, I believe... It joins a soul, or a soul fragment such as a memory, to an object or place, and forges a connection that is loose - but completely unbreakable.”

So that line... those memories can radiate out, reach across the room to fan my fear of them, but they will remain rooted in place, linked to the potion residue...

He’s eyeing my outstretched hand. I tense for another blow, but he shakes his head.

“No, little one. I think we’ll try a more – practical – exercise to let that lesson sink in. I want to see you cross that line.”

“No! I mean... I _can’t._ ”

He smiles. “Oh, but I think you can. And you will. Now.”

Oh God. I can’t, I really can’t. Why doesn’t he believe me? I’ll just have to show him...

My mouth is suddenly very dry. What’s he going to do to me when I can’t do it? I’m damned either way. But that’s the way it is with him - he has complete control, and there’s no way out.

“I’m waiting.”

Oh, what’s the use? It’s not as if he’s going to listen to me if I just _tell_ him.

I stand up and close my eyes and walk across the room. No point in thinking about it, after all, but I can’t _I can’t_ and... I realise I’ve stopped moving. I try to put one foot forward and a bolt of pain judders up my leg as if I’ve trod on a high voltage cable. I _can’t._ I wasn’t imagining it - it really is that bad.

“Just a few inches further, little one,” he mocks.

“I can’t,” I tell him, half sobbing. I keep my eyes closed. I don’t want to see how close I am.

I hear his chair scrape on the stone, and the sound of his footsteps coming towards me. I tremble as he circles around me.

_Around_ me?

I open my eyes and stare at him. He’s on the other side of the line.

“That’s right, Mudblood,” he says. “It doesn’t affect me at all. I belong here, you see.”

What’s that supposed to mean?

He paces round to stand behind me.

“Now, as I was saying,” he hisses in my ear, “you don’t have very much further to go at all.” And he pushes me forward.

_“No!”_

The spell is lashing viciously up my legs and I twist to the side, ducking away, but he catches me by the wrist and pulls me back to face him.

“Dear me,” he says, changing his grip so that he’s holding both my wrists, one in each gloved hand, “we _are_ being disobedient, aren’t we?”

“No!” _Please_ don’t let him take this out on Mum and Dad. “I’m not, really, I’ll do whatever you say but I can’t do that...”

“Oh, but you _can_ , little one.”

And he extends his arms, slowly, forcing me to take a step backwards, and then another... and I twist my wrists upwards and around, trying to pull out of his grip but he’s too strong, I knew it was useless and there’s a searing heat flaring up my back and  
the world explodes in fire and shards of _pain_  
God, _God_ , I _can’t-_  
I’m thrashing away from  
the tiger claws tearing into my back _stop stop_ but  
still there’s his red-hot iron grip on my wrists pushing  
_pushing_ me further back  
into this _nightmare_ of  
burning, slicing, screaming-

He pulls me forward. Out. My knees are giving way and I just want to sink to the floor but he’s holding me up, forcing me to stand in front of him, shaking.

_please... Please..._

I gasp as a sheet of fire slices down my spine. That spell even captured the bloody _aftershocks_.

He catches both my wrists in his left hand. With his right he touches his wand to my forehead, and gently lifts away a strand of hair that’s stuck to my skin. “Perhaps you’re right after all, Mudblood,” he murmurs.

Oh, thank God for that.

_“Imperio!”_

and the pain floats away... and his mind cradles mine  
...and I know that I want to help all I can...and  
he knows it too... for he smiles at me now…  
and I smile back as he turns me around  
...and still I can feel his mind upon mine  
as he tells me to walk, so I  
_I can’t_  
but there’s nothing to fear... that’s what he says  
...so I take a step forward…  
_Don’t, don’t_  
it’s like standing barefoot on a kitchen knife-  
...but it’s not really there... as his thoughts stroke on mine  
and the agony fades... I’m safe with him here, so I move my foot forward-  
_Oh God._ I can’t _do_ this.  
Acid droplets splatter across my skin and I _have to wash them off-_  
. ..But This Is NOT REAL... so I just need to walk-  
But it’s eating into my flesh and it hurts, it hurts  
it bloody well _hurts_ I have to get away-  
but the pain fades away... because it’s not really there  
and all that I need... is to do as he says... and then I’ll be safe-  
_Go back! Go back, Go back go back goback goback-_  
...but there’s food over there, and he wants me to eat…  
so I reach out my hand  
And a knife slices right through my wrist and I’m _screaming_ and pulling away  
Away, I have to get _away,_ I don’t belong here, I should never have come here-  
...but I HAVE to go on... that’s what he says-   
But I _can’t,_ it’ll tear me apart!  
...though he says that it won’t... that my hand is all right  
and it is, it’s still there... though it’s hurting so much  
but I can deal with the _pain!_...with his mind holding mine  
..and leading me on-

“No, _No!_ NOOOO...”

That silk-smooth voice in my head shatters in the explosion of agony as I stumble forwards and  
My _bones_ are burning, unbearable heat to liquefy steel  
molten metal engulfing me _stop, stop_ falling, grasping at the  
cool, cool stone floor but it’s knives, knives, nothing but slicing  
blades as I try to crawl forwards, away, but there is no _away_  
just a long plunge _down_  
through a pit of flame with the promise of darkness at the end.

But... but... the world is still here. Spinning sickeningly, but the floor stretched out beneath me, rough against my cheek... is just a stone floor.

I shudder at the memory.

I must have blacked out for a moment. That was how it ended last time. Did I _cross_ the line then? 

Line. End. End of the line. Wish it _was_.

Must have crossed it. No more pain. Just my throat that feels as if it’s been scraped out with sandpaper.

_Oh God._ Does that mean I’ll have to go _back_ over it?

Might not be as bad as coming this way.

Might be _worse_.

I flinch as something brushes my leg. His robe.

“That was a most informative demonstration, Mudblood, especially as seen from _inside_ your mind,” says his voice, floating somewhere above me. “You seem to have quite a reaction to it.”

Oh, why can’t he just leave me _alone?_

“Of course,” he continues, “you would do, given that the memories were yours to begin with. You knew what it was going to feel like, after all. The effect should be considerably less - dramatic - on others.”

_Others?_

I sit up. He crouches down beside me.

“Yes, little one,” he says softly, “I meant it when I said that you’d done your fellow Mudbloods a great service. Now that you know how wrong you were to come here, you wouldn’t want anyone else to make the same mistake, now, would you?”

Oh... oh _no._

I stare at him, horrified.

_I’m sure you’ll be only to glad to serve as a warning,_ is what I remember him saying. And I thought he was going to make me do something horrible under Imperius, or something, but he didn’t really mean me, not in person.

“That’s right,” he grins. “As I was saying yesterday, letting every Muggle walking into Diagon Alley experience _that_ should reduce the number of Mudblood freaks we have to deal with.”

Oh _God._

“You’re... you’re going to put that” - I point at the line of powder - “in Diagon Alley?”

“My, my - we are being intelligent today, aren’t we?”

“You can’t!”

“Oh, I think you’ll find that I can.”

“And you really think that no one’s going to notice?”

He shrugs. “It only works on Mudbloods, remember. Only on outsiders who know they don’t belong – just like you.” 

Is he saying that the reaction is triggered when the victims feel they don’t belong? But that doesn’t make sense. All I remember of my first visit to Diagon Alley was being excited by how new and strange it all was. I _never_ thought I didn’t belong, even after the ferret called me a Mudblood in second year. Not even after what _he_ did to me yesterday.

“But… I only said that because you made me.”

“I only made you face the truth you were too stubborn to see. From the moment you set foot in the Alley you knew you were inferior to us. Would you really have memorised every book you could lay your hands on if you hadn’t felt you had something to prove?”

That’s not fair! I only wanted to make sure I wasn’t behind everyone else.

He smiles.

“So, as I was saying… we concentrate on areas frequented mainly by – new arrivals – and they won’t even be able to recognise the reaction as magic. And as for the more experienced ones... well, most of them haven’t the wit to work it out either, and bear in mind that the experience will be very much milder for them than it is for you. Anxiety, unexplained cramps, nightmares... no one’s going to be falling down screaming in the street, amusing as that would be to watch. No, they – and especially their parents – will just be left with a vague but compelling feeling that the wizarding world is not a pleasant place to be and that they’d be far better off renouncing their wands and staying in the Muggle world where they belong.”

“But someone will see the powder…”

“Don’t be stupid. I certainly won’t be using it in anything like _that_ kind of concentration.” He gestures at the dark line on the floor. “Who’s going to notice a few more grains of dust in a dusty street? And if they do... well, they won’t be able to trace it back to me, and once the Dark Lord has cleaned out those Ministry riffraff, it’s hardly going to be relevant anyway.”

“But _my_ _blood_ is in it!”

“Oh, so it is.” He grins. “Don’t worry, little one, I think the process of brewing the potion will have rendered that quite unrecognisable. Although there’s a chance it could be traced if... well, I have that little problem in hand. And even if anyone did realise that you were the... donor, it doesn’t mean they’d be able to _find_ you, does it?”

This is... monstrous. Ever since I got my Hogwarts letter I’ve done my best to fit in, and now he’s using _me_ to do more harm to Muggleborn integration than anyone since Salazar Slytherin. And there’s nothing I can do about it. I hate him!

But I can’t let myself hate him, can I? Oh God.

He reaches towards me – and draws back, twisting those black fingers into the dark folds of his robe. I curl _my_ fingers tightly around my ankle. I want to move away, but I daren’t.

“Yes, Mudblood, I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for years.” He smiles at me, so falsely honeyed that it turns my stomach, and yet somehow I... I can’t look away. “And you more than exceeded expectations, little one. You’re quite as talented as I was led to believe, but combined with such malleable naiveté... I’d even go so far as to grade your performance as ‘Outstanding’.”

Bastard.

“And you’re going to go on giving me outstanding performances, aren’t you?” he murmurs. “Only next time it will be so much sweeter, because you’ll understand _exactly_ what’s happening, and you’ll know how completely powerless you are to stop it.” He carefully brushes my hair away from my cheek. “And by combining that awareness with the way you... respond, I think we’ll be able to put you to work driving far more powerful magic than Effundus.”

That’s obscene.

But... but it does mean that I was right, earlier. He _is_ explaining all this to me to make me lose myself in a tangled labyrinth of hate. And that means that there _is_ a way out!

_Unless that’s just what he wants you to think?_

There’s one way to find out.

“Not if I reversed the Vector,” I tell him. _Not if I refuse to hate you._

He stares at me for a few seconds, brow slightly furrowed, clearly searching for my meaning first in English and then in practical terms. Then he laughs.

“That’s impossible!”

No. It can’t be.

“And there I was, thinking you had some modicum of intelligence,” he sneers. “You _can’t_ reverse a Hagalaz Vector once the emotional conjunctions are set - all you can do is counter its effects with a stronger Vector. Every _wizard_ knows that.”

Now it’s my turn to stare as my mind filters his words into something comprehensible. What he’s implying is that hatred itself is irreversible, that the only way to meet it is with more hatred, more violence. And that, in terms Ron might use, is complete bollocks.

“But... how can you possibly think that?” I ask. “Haven’t you ever heard of Gandhi?”

“Of _what_?”

No... I don’t suppose he would have. Why would someone like him think he had anything to learn from a Muggle?

But does that mean he really believes that violence is the only way to settle anything? _Every wizard knows that..._ does that include Ron? His Dad? That... that would explain so much - the brawl in Flourish and Blotts, Ron’s insistence that Harry had to duel the ferret back in first year...

God. What a bleak, empty view of life. No wonder wizarding society is in such a state.

Professor Dumbledore doesn’t think like that, I’m sure he doesn’t. But then, Professor Dumbledore is open-minded enough to read Muggle newspapers.

“So you really think you can reverse a Hagalaz Vector.” He stands up, laughing nastily. “That’s the most ridiculous, ignorant piece of _Muggle-inspired_ nonsense I’ve ever heard. And I really thought I’d heard it all.”

And who is _he_ to call anyone ignorant, when he can hardly see past his own Manor gate? As if there’s any logic to his view of the world! Can’t he _see_?

“But… if you think we’re that ridiculous, why do you find us so threatening?”

Bad move.

“You. Are. _Not._ A. Threat. To. _Me_!” he snarls, punctuating every word with a stab of his wand. “Look at you, snivelling on the floor! What in the name of Darkness do you think you could do to _me_? You even Repudiated your wand! No real witch would do that!”

That’s so unfair. Repudiation was invented by _purebloods,_ and plenty of ‘real witches’ have done it when they’ve had to. It’s a _perfectly_ valid way of preventing an opponent using your own wand against you – though rather a desperate one.

“What, so you dare to disagree with me, do you?” he sneers.

I look at the floor. I’m not going to volunteer to say anything when he’s in this mood.

“Answer me!” he snaps, grabbing a handful of hair and jerking my head up.

_Ow!_

“Any witch would do it, in that situation. Even Ingrid the Invincible did it once!”

_And I’m_ not _going to be ashamed of it!_

His scornful laughter rings around the room. “Are you convincing yourself, Mudblood? Because you’re not convincing me. Repudiation is a last resort, and always has been. I’d never allow myself to be threatened like that.”

_Oh no, of course he wouldn’t. If he hadn’t been able to get out of here without a wand..._

I strenuously resist the urge to raise an eyebrow. But I don’t have to - my sceptical silence speaks loudly enough. He flings me to the floor with a snarl of rage.

“I’ll show you how much of a threat you are, you know-it-all little bitch! _Crucio!_ ”

broken glass crammed down my throat  
slashing gouging _suffocating_ screaming  
bloody core a pillar of pain _noooo_  
tearing through vein, bone, gut  
everything _shredding_ from inside out  
_stop stop_ i can’t hold on-

I’m on the floor. I put my hand to my mouth. It comes away red. Bloody. _ohmygod_

No, it’s okay, it’s okay. I bit myself, that’s all... 

_oh God. Shit._

I take a deep breath, the air burning my lungs like acid. And then I cough and cough and cough and the agony is multiplied a hundredfold.

I clench my fists and squeeze my eyes closed and wait for the shuddering to stop.

I think I hit a nerve. He’s never lost it quite that spectacularly before.

_He’s never let himself._

Oh God.

He crouches down beside me. Seizes my hair again. No pain at all, not compared to...

He forces me to look at him. Cold and hard as ice, now.

“See how helpless you are, Mudblood?” he sneers. “And I can see you hate me for that. Don’t try to deny it.”

_Oh, I hate you all right, you sadistic_ bastard _. If only I had a wand, I’d show you..._

He pushes me away and stands up.

“But if you really want to waste your time trying to change that, don’t let me stop you. I’m sure we can make that into a most amusing little game. But I can tell you now that you haven’t got a chance of winning. It can’t be done.”

He’s clutching his left arm, I notice, just like Professor Snape does sometimes. He drops his hand as he sees me looking.

“No one can reverse that sort of working once it’s started, Mudblood. _No one._ ”

Very deliberately, he points his wand towards me. I try not to look scared. I probably fail.

He sneers down at me. _“Nox.”_

His Disapparating _pop_ is loud in the darkness.

Silence.

What happens now?

I should never have told him my stupid idea about not hating him - it looks as if the bastard’s going to take that as a challenge. But he was being so bloody _smug_. 

And then he lost it. Because he hates me _._

And I think it _is_ me he hates. Me, Hermione Granger: for being everything he _does_ find threatening, and for daring to speak the truth about it. Some of that felt far too… personal, just to come out of his general loathing of Muggleborns.

_Great. So I’m going to get the full force of his hatred, any time he wants to get something out of his system._

Like he did just now. Hate is a sign of weakness, not power. And hating him didn’t exactly work for _me_ , did it? I can’t fight him that way. He’s too powerful.

God.

So what can I do?

Mum and Dad always said that hate is caused by ignorance - that’s part of the reason they encouraged me to study so much. I suppose that’s how they were so open-minded about letting me go to Hogwarts.

And I would still have done that, even if I had known about _him_. I’d just have been a lot more bloody careful, that’s all.

So, if I’m trying not to hate the bastard, I need to know more about him, I suppose. And not just in terms of ‘what-is-he-going-to-do-to-me-now’. Seeing him just as a sadistic bastard Death Eater is as bad as him seeing me just as an ignorant Mudblood.

_But he_ is _a sadistic bastard Death Eater. And you’ve never done anything to him._

But... _he_ doesn’t see it that way, does he?

_Who cares about his twisted justifications for what he does? It doesn’t make it any better, does it?_

Of course not. But this isn’t about him. Hating him is harming _me_. Judging his actions by how I choose to react to him makes as much sense as judging myself worthless because that’s what _he_ thinks.

_He doesn’t think you’re worthless though, does he? He wants to use you._

I really don’t want to think about that.

But... at least it means he’s reacting to me as an individual. And there has to be some hope in that, surely? I’m not up against some rigid, anonymous system, but a person with a face.

And a name.

A name.

Funny how hard it is even to think it.

_Names have power._

Yes.

_And that’s why you have to use it._

I suppose.

_You shouldn’t be afraid of a_ name _._

No.

_Lucius Malfoy._

I roll the words round in my mind.

It feels almost blasphemous.

_Blasphemous? What, so you’ve started worshipping him now, have you?_

God, _no_. It’s just that, well, he’s the only person I’ve seen for... weeks, probably, apart from Macnair who’s more animal than human. And, and... I don’t know. He’s all there _is_.

_Lucius Malfoy._

It sends a shiver up my spine.

I heard those words so often in Grimmauld Place, especially from Ron’s dad. Lucius Malfoy, the Death Eater that got away with it. Lucius Malfoy, buying off the Minister. Lucius Malfoy, one-day-he’ll-get-what-he-deserves. Lucius Malfoy, Public Enemy Number... two.

But now... it’s hard to link the name to the face. It doesn’t _fit_ , somehow. What did I know about Lucius Malfoy, back then?

What did any of _them_ know about Lucius Malfoy, really?

It’s too political, I suppose, that’s the problem. ‘Lucius Malfoy’ always stood in my mind for the Other Side. One of Them. Someone who looked down on my parents and me for no reason. Someone who almost got me killed in second year. But even that was never _personal._

And now there’s ‘the bastard’, who revels in inflicting pain beyond anything I could have imagined, and then mocks me for reacting. But I don’t have a name for _him,_ for the creature that stares calmly into my eyes with such depths of hatred, as if he wants to devour me completely...

But I have to call him something. I can’t just keep thinking ‘him’, as if he rules me so completely I can’t see him as just a person. As if he’s completely beyond comprehension.

_That’s right. He’s just an ordinary, vicious, narrow-minded bigot. He just has more power than most of them._

No. Never ‘ordinary’.

Lucius. Lucius _Malfoy._ I can’t just call him... by his first name. It seems too, well, personal, almost as if that would invite him... _in_. And the last thing I want to do is bring him _closer_.

But ‘Malfoy’ is the school bully. A spoilt brat. Annoying, and not exactly harmless, but between him and his father is a deep dark ocean of difference. And ‘Mr Malfoy’ would make him seem... civilised, due the respect given to any random stranger. And he’s _not._

It has to be ‘Lucius Malfoy’ then.

There, it’s getting easier. And I’m not going abbreviate it, to his initials or something. That would be hiding again.

_Names have power._

“I _won’t_ hate you, L-Lucius Malfoy,” I say aloud.

But the darkness around me swallows the words, and gives no answer.


	10. Empathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione tries to make Lucius see past his prejudices.  
> Lucius proves that he knows Hermione only too well.  
> Will she ever be able to come to terms with him?

I sit on the floor for the whole night, like when I was little and I’d wake in the dark and lie rigid for hours with my back against the solid, comforting wall of my room.

Only this time I know that my nightmares really are out there, a screaming chaos of pain and horror radiating out from that awful powder _he_ left on the floor.

No. Not ‘he’. I _can_ say his name.

_Lucius Malfoy._

I shiver. I cradle the warm bowl of soup. It’s the only thing in here that feels real, that nurtures life instead of draining it.

I eat slowly, letting the rich broth soak into torn-off hunks of bread and savouring every bite. The apple, when I crunch into it, is as deliciously sweet-sour as it smells. The sharp taste of the juice almost brings tears to my eyes.

_There, he gave you fruit. That’s one not-hateful thing he’s done._

But only because he knew I wouldn’t be able to get to it. Only because he wanted to make sure I’d try to cross that horrible line before I knew what it was...

And anyhow, it doesn’t work like that. I can’t pretend he isn’t a bastard when he is. I have to stop him using me again, of course I do, but if I lose sight of what he really is, I don’t have a chance.

_Right. So how on earth are you supposed to look at that vicious white face and not hate it?_

I don’t know. But I have to find a way.

 _Lucius Malfoy_. The words echo in my mind, but they don’t resonate with meaning - not beyond the shiver of dread that almost seems to relate more to the pain than the one who stares into my eyes as he inflicts it. Names may indeed have power, but only when they mean something more than just a label. I’ll never understand him just by repeating the name like a mantra, and the words without the understanding are only a jumble of sound.

I shift onto my knees. I can’t get comfortable - my robe provides no cushioning whatsoever. I wish I could stretch out on the mattress, draw the blankets around me, sleep and forget all of this for a few hours... but there might as well be a stone wall between me and the bed for all the good that thought does me.

There’s no way I could force myself to cross that line again. 

What if he just leaves me trapped here? That’s just the sort of game he’d love, trapping me in an even smaller corner of his claustrophobic prison.

 _Oh, he won’t do that. Look at the fuss he made just about keeping the bed_ _tidy. He’s hardly going to leave you without a toilet..._

My knees are hurting, so I lie down on my side. It’s awkward, lowering myself down when the welts on my right hand are so painful. I _wish_ I could get comfortable. I’m so tired...

But I can’t sleep. Not when the floor is so hard. Not when I can almost _feel_ the curse waiting to tear into my dreams.

Eventually I stop trying to sleep. I stand up, stretch, and pace back and forth beside the wall in the dark, trying to recall the runic equations in that book. Trying to remember if there was any loophole, any clue to the most effective way of side-stepping his manipulations and turning them back on him.

I’m too tired to think, really. But I go on trying. It’s easier than trying to ignore that line.

I’m too tired to stand up for long, either. When he returns, I’m sitting against the wall again.

I can’t see him at first, of course - I only hear the soft _pop_ as he Apparates, then the steady in‑breaths and out‑breaths that are barely audible but still loud against the silence that went before.

I sit motionless, arms wrapped around my knees, listening.

Listening to _Lucius Malfoy’s_ breathing.

In the dark like this, the only thing I can sense of him is that small sign of humanity. We’re all equal in our need to breathe.

_“Lumos.”_

In the light, it’s different. Everything about him, from the soft drape of his robes to his imperious gaze as he glances round the room, radiates his superiority.

His belief in his superiority, that is. He isn’t any better than me. He _isn’t._

I wait for a sneering comment to cut that thought to shreds, brace myself for his usual verbal bullying, and, and... whatever else that may come with it.

But he ignores me. He just draws out a dark green pouch and crouches down with his back to me.

I’m not sure why I find that annoying, but I do. And at the same time I don’t dare to draw attention to myself. Perhaps if I stay still and silent enough he might just pick up the powder and go away.

_As if._

He’s muttering to himself, some kind of Summoning Charm I suppose, by the way it makes the powder start to lift from the floor and flow slowly up into his pouch.

 _My_ blood is in that powder. _My_ wand. _My_ fear and hate and pain that he wrung out of me and poured into it. Oh, I do want the stuff gone, but somehow seeing him take it just underscores everything else he’s taken from me.

Not that there’s anything I can do about it.

He still hasn’t even glanced in my direction, he’s just moving slowly along the line. It’s almost tempting just to get up and walk over to the bathroom through the gap he’s cleared, ignoring him as he’s ignoring me. But I daren’t. The way he’s not looking at me is too absolute to be anything other than deliberate. He is watching me - he’s just not _looking._

He’s only trying to provoke me again. Why is he so damned good at that? I should be rejoicing that for once he’s not tormenting me.

It’s strange, seeing him turn that terrible focused attention on something other than me. He’s holding his wand over the powder, a few centimetres in front of the pouch, weaving a fluid pattern with the precision that is now so familiar... His hair is brushed back from his face, so I can see how his eyes are narrowed slightly, how his mouth is curved down in a slight frown - though I’m not sure whether that’s because he’s concentrating or whether it’s just what his face does when he’s not smirking.

And even crouching he manages to radiate arrogance. It’s inscribed in the slightly-too-high angle of his head, in the possessive curl of his fingers around the pouch, in the ease with which he moves forwards, hardly swaying even in that awkward position. Even the way his long robes pool on the floor seems like a deliberately crafted arrangement... but then, everything he does down here is a deliberately crafted arrangement.

He turns his head towards me.

I fight the urge to draw my knees in closer to my chest.

He arches an eyebrow. “If you’re so interested, why don’t you come over here and look?”

It’s not a suggestion - it’s an order.

_Why did you have to watch him like that?_

Like it would have made any difference if I’d not looked at him? He’d only have got at me for ignoring him...

I stand up, trying not to let my apprehension show. He watches me, unsmiling, as I walk towards him.

_But you can’t go over there!_

It’s just the spell in the powder. What I can’t do is let him think I’m defying him - my parents’ lives depend on that.

But the air around me is crackling with power, and I can _feel_ it waiting like a cobra coiled ready to strike. I _can’t_ walk into that.

I stop, a metre away from that line snaking across the stone.

He frowns. “You can do better than that, Mudblood.”

But I’m already shaking with the effort of _not reacting_ to the thousand needles pressing against my skin, to the bolts arcing randomly across my hands and feet. I daren’t argue with him, but I will him to read my mute plea to _please don’t make me..._

Useless, of course.

“Are you really that pathetic?”

_Don’t react, don’t react..._

But I can’t help shuddering at the cold knives tracing up my legs, stomach, chest, face, leaving narrow trails of pain that _don’t quite_ explode into agony-

“Your waywardness is getting boring,” he sighs. “We both know that I can make you do anything I want in the end.”

I grit my teeth. _Bastard. You evil, heartless_ bastard _. God, I hope one day you get what you deserve..._

He smiles.

“Alternatively, Mudblood, if you refuse to come to the powder, perhaps I should bring it to you. It would be most interesting to see your response if I put some in a vial, hung it on a chain and locked it around your throat…”

He _can’t!_ Fear stabs through me like a spear of ice. Freezes out the pain.

And for a moment I stop shaking, and am able to meet his eyes. “If you do that,” I tell him, “I’ll lose my mind.”

_And you don’t want that. You want me to be aware, you said so yesterday..._

“Hmm. I’ll remember that, should it become necessary.”

I stare at the floor.

“But luckily for you, I’m in a good mood today. Go stand by the wall.”

He really isn’t going to force me closer?

_Oh, thank God for that._

I turn before he can change his mind, half expecting him to blast me as I stumble away. Away from the lashing tentacles of the spell. Away from _him._

“Stop there,” he tells me when I’m almost at the edge of the room. “And now I want to see your nose touch the wall. I won’t have you staring at me.”

He what?

_Oh, of course, he can’t just dismiss me as if I have nothing better to do but wait until he deigns to speak to me! No, he has to make me stand in a bloody awkward position so he can have a bloody good laugh at how bloody stupid I look!_

Not just awkward. My calf muscles start to ache almost as soon as I lean forward. But still, it’s not the pain that really gets me, nor even the humiliation. No, it’s the pettiness of it that brings tears of helpless rage to my eyes. _Why_ does he have to treat me like this?

_Because he still wants you to hate him._

Oh yes, that. And how can I not hate someone who can watch me shuddering with pain and _smile_? It’s not human! How can I possibly hope to understand it?

_You don’t have to understand it, you just have to stop hating him. See him as a person. Remember who he is._

I know who he is. What he is.

 _No,_ who _he is. Names have power, remember._

So I stand there, trying to ignore the growing strain on my muscles, listening to the small scraping sounds behind me as _Lucius Malfoy_ lays claim to the remainder of his evil concoction.

The name sends shivers down my spine, but it doesn’t _mean_ anything. Here, there is just me and him. What’s the point of giving a name to such an implacable, unassailable power?

_He is not omnipotent!_

No. Of course he can’t do absolutely anything- but what he can do is bad enough.

He’s still working on the powder, by the sounds of it. I daren’t turn around to look.

_Though it’s not as if he needs an excuse to hurt you, is it?_

No.

It’s almost pathetic, really. Why does he feel the need to victimise _me_? If he’s that bothered about Muggleborns, wouldn’t it be better for him to do something constructive about it?

_But that’s exactly what he is doing. He’s just using you to do it._

No one could call this constructive! It’s exactly the opposite - a coward’s way out, sneaking around in the dark, destroying hopes and minds and lives.

_Well, now you know where his son gets it from._

Oh yes. Right from the start of first year, when he challenged Harry to that duel just to get him into trouble with Filch. Of course Harry should never have been stupid enough to take him up on it, but still, I couldn’t believe anyone could be such a sneak.

Pathetic. I should feel sorry for them, the way they think they’re so wonderful when really they’re so _weak_! __

It makes me feel a little less helpless, thinking about it that way.

The noises behind me stop. I hear his robes rustle as he puts the pouch away - I presume - and then he walks towards me.

_What now?_

Don’t look. Don’t provoke him.

He stops just behind me. Oh, he knows just how intimidating it is to have him breathing down my neck when I can’t even see him. Bastard. _Pathetic._

Pathetic bastard.

_What is this, playground insults time?_

Yeah, maybe I should turn around and thumb my nose at him.

I almost giggle.

 _Get a grip, Hermione! You can’t_ _let him get to you like this!_

His wand on my neck cuts through my thoughts.

“So, Mudblood. Not looking very threatening today, are we?”

I take a deep breath and stare at the wall, trying not to tremble. It’s difficult, against the tension in the back of my legs.

“Well?” he snaps.

“That’s not what I meant,” I say in a small voice.

 _And it’s not what I said_ , _either_ _\- I asked why_ you _thought we were a threat. And your only answer was to... you didn’t_ have _an answer._

“So, you aren’t completely stupid, then. You are not a threat to me, Mudblood - I could kill you in a second. But I still think you miss the point.”

 _And why on earth do you care what I_ _think, anyway?_

He paces over to the wall. I daren’t move my head, but I can see him from the corner of my eye. He leans lazily back against the stone, a metre away from me.

“You haven’t asked me why I’m in a good mood,” he says.

Well, it’s not as if I thought he meant it. And it’s not as if he’d have let me ask, either.

He grins. “Yes. It seems that your dear friend Arthur Weasley has somewhat less... facility with snakes than do you.”

_Oh God, not Ron’s dad!_

I stare at him in horror. “What do you mean?”

 _“Did I say you could look at me?”_ A Stinging Hex lashes my shoulder.

I clench my fists and turn my face back to the wall. _Bastard._

But underneath the anger my stomach has turned to ice. What’s happened?

_Probably nothing. He’s just saying it to get at you._

I wish I could believe that.

He laughs. “Yes, typical of a Weasley to fall asleep on the job. Would you like me to tell you about it?”

_You’ll tell me what you want to tell me, whether I want to hear it or not. And whether or not it’s true._

“Well, I can’t,” he says. “Nobody knows, you see. _Somebody_ doesn’t want the details to be made public. But I have it on good authority that there was rather a lot of blood.”

 _Is he dead?_ I want to ask. But I don’t.

He must have been doing something for the Order. Or maybe it’s a lie and Mr Weasley is safe in his bed at The Burrow.

Maybe.

Or maybe this is part of _his_ personal vendetta against the Weasleys.

“W- what did you do to him?”

“Me? No, it wasn’t anything to do with me, much to my regret. He was just in the wrong place at the right time. But you know all about that.”

What’s he on about?

I look at him as carefully as I can without turning my face from the wall.

“Oh, don’t play the innocent with me, Mudblood. We both know exactly how long you can keep up _that_ façade.”

 _Oh God. He’s going to try to force me to tell him, and there’s nothing I_ can _tell him!_

“No!” I say. “How could I know, when I’ve been trapped down here all this time?”

He frowns, but more in thought than in anger. I hope.

“Now, little one. I know that you know more than enough to work it out. Unless you’re considerably more stupid than you’ve proved to be up until now.”

Thoughts tumble through my mind, but none of them stick in a way that makes sense.

“Or, unless...” he muses.

Unless what?

“Look at me.”

I do as he says, surreptitiously stretching my legs as I move my head and stand straight. 

He’s looking at me with more curiosity than anything else. Almost a human emotion, almost a person, _Lucius-_

But he catches my chin in his hand and any thought of a name drowns in the fathomless grey ocean of his gaze, as he searches my eyes... it makes me shiver but I daren’t look away. I’m not sure I _could_ look away.

He looks up at the ceiling, as if pondering something, and slowly runs his glove-clad thumb along my jaw.

I wish he wouldn’t do that.

And he laughs, a sharp bark of a laugh that sounds oddly like Sirius.

“You know, I actually think I believe you. So Potter really didn’t tell you what they were guarding?”

He’s returned his gaze to mine now, and I stare at him in confusion. What’s Harry got to do with it? He didn’t know any more than I did about what the Order was doing. We went over and over it often enough.

“But I should have known that, of course,” he continues, relaxing his grip on me and dropping his hand to his side. “You would have told me already if he had, when we had our little chat over that bottle of Veritaserum. Well, if your – friends – thought you were too unreliable to be trusted with that information, perhaps I should trust their judgement, hmm?”

But Harry wasn’t hiding anything from me. He couldn’t have been - he’s not a good enough actor, for starters.

Although... he has been acting rather strangely this term. What if he knew more than he told Ron and me? Or what if he told Ron, and not me?

He wouldn’t have done that.

Would he?

“Don’t look so upset, Mudblood - he probably thought he was doing you a favour. Knowing too much can be dangerous for peons like you. Why, you might have ended up like Weasley.”

At least it sounds as if what happened to Mr Weasley wasn’t because of something he made me say. At least that isn’t my fault.

Maybe Harry was right not to tell me, given that _he_ would have just prised it out of me. But it still hurts.

“And you really shouldn’t be upset about _that_ , either,” he says. “The wizarding world is considerably better off without the likes of Arthur Weasley - ignorant enough to be dangerous, and far too stupid to realise it.”

Anger flashes through me, as unstoppable as his bastard spell.

“That’s my best friend’s dad you’re talking about! And he’s not stupid! At least he was never taken in by _you_!”

He sucks in his breath, nostrils flaring. “And how could _you_ know anything about it? _You_ are just as ignorant as he. Though you, at least, have some excuse.”

_How dare he call me ignorant!_

But I bite back my retort because he’s sneering at me, so sure he knows what buttons to press to manipulate me, and _I_ _won’t let him._

He sees it, and it infuriates him. __

“Yes, you stupid little bitch, _ignorant!_ You just can’t accept it, can you? You Mudbloods are pitiful, coming to scrounge little scraps of knowledge so you can look back at the weak and stupid Muggles you came from and reassure yourselves that at least you’re better than they are! But you know _nothing_! You _are_ nothing!”

And there is power in not reacting, in being the one to keep control. In letting righteous determined angerwash away the twisted weakness of hate. So I can stand and look calmly at the eye of the storm, as if his loss of control is feeding my keeping of it.

He’s breathing heavily, glaring at me as if he’s about to strike out. I almost take a step back but suddenly I think of Mr Weasley and Professor McGonagall and Sirius and all the rest - they would face him if they had to. If Mr Weasley really has died, it’s because we’re fighting a _war_.

Harry understood what that meant, but I didn’t, not really. Just three months ago I was complaining because they wouldn’t let us help them more actively - well, now I don’t have a choice. Now I’m facing the enemy, and, and, I’m probably going to die, but if there’s any little thing I can do, if there’s any crack in his armour I can exploit somehow, I owe it to Mr Weasley to do it.

It terrifies me, but I’m still angry _._ And you’re supposed to know your enemy, aren’t you?

_So, let’s see what he’ll tell us._

“If my ‘ignorance’ is so offensive to you,” I say, trying to soften the ice in my voice, “why don’t you enlighten me?”

His right hand jerks towards his wand - but then his face relaxes into a condescending smile.

“Ah, little one,” he murmurs. “I knew you would prove to be entertaining.”

Hatred stabs through my heart. Less clean than the anger.

His smile broadens.

_Damn him!_

“So, as you’re being so co-operative, where do you think we should start?” He raises an eyebrow.

Does he want me to answer?

“That was actually a question, Mudblood. I want to hear what you have to say - that way we can demonstrate just how untenable your arguments are.”

_Oh, do you really think so?_

“Tell me why you hate Muggles so much,” I say.

“Oh, I don’t _hate_ Muggles, not when they stay in their place. That would be as pointless as hating Flobberworms. Uppity creatures like you are another matter entirely.”

I won’t look away. I _won’t._

“Muggleborns then. How can anyone justify torturing young witches and wizards just because they go shopping in Diagon Alley?”

He snorts. “They are _not_ witches and wizards. They are Muggle freaks who for some unknown reason happen to have been cursed with the ability to do just enough magic to make them dangerous.”

“But if they can do magic, they _are_ witches and wizards!”

“And that,” he sneers, “is the crux of the matter, _Mudblood._ It takes more than learning a few simple spells to make you a witch!”

_More than ‘a few simple spells’, you bastard. You were impressed with what I could do_ _\- you just about said as much!_

“Ah, but you disagree, of course. You’re so ignorant about real wizarding culture, you don’t even know what you don’t know.”

“So tell me.”

_Or would that spoil all the fun you have getting at me for my ‘ignorance’?_

“You really think I’m going to hand knowledge like that to a Mudblood?” He laughs scornfully. “You couldn’t possibly understand!”

Right. So basically the patronising bastard doesn’t have any logical justification for believing whatever he believes - not that I didn’t know that anyway. And he can’t even admit to it.

Pathetic.

He returns my glare.

“It’s a question of attitude, you see. And not only are you a Muggle, you are a particularly self-righteous one.”

I am a _witch_ , but I let that pass - perhaps there’s a chance here to make him understand.

“But Muggle attitudes aren’t really that different,” I tell him seriously. “Not compared to the wizards I’ve met.”

“Precisely,” he snaps. “The sort of wizards who would talk to _you_ are practically Muggles themselves!”

It’s useless. How can I get through to him if he won’t even explain himself? Muggleborns aren’t wizards because we don’t have the right attitude, my friends aren’t _proper_ wizards because... well, because they’re friends with me, while no one he considers to be a proper wizard would stoop to speak to me - but it’s still my fault that I don’t understand his definition of a ‘proper wizard’!

He just doesn’t like me because I won’t bow down to everything he says. And the more witches and wizards think for themselves instead of blindly accepting the pronouncements of the old wizarding families, the less influence the old wizarding families have. He’s so convinced of his own superiority, he won’t even admit it’s all about power.

And he thinks he’s so different from his Muggle counterparts?

He speaks again, a little more calmly this time. “Attitude, Mudblood, is something about which you clearly have a lot to learn. Let me give you an illustrative example.”

I look at him warily. But for once he doesn’t seem about to hex me.

“You do know about wizard’s duels, don’t you?” he asks.

Of course I do! Where’s he going with this?

I nod, still wary.

He smiles patronisingly. I grit my teeth.

“The point, you see, is that the challenger must face the same risks as the wizard he challenges. Muggles, on the other hand, just destroy anything that could be a threat to them in the most cowardly way possible. They have no concept of honour whatsoever.”

What? As if _he_ isn’t doing exactly that? I knew that logic wasn’t a pureblood strong point, but even so, this is... Every time I come up with a reasonable argument, he just slithers away into the undergrowth of doublethink. How can I possibly argue against him?

But how can I not?

“Could you explain something to me, then?” I ask in as neutral a tone as I can manage.

“Probably not, given your inferior mind,” he sneers. “But ask if you must.”

“Well, I don’t quite understand how using that powder to attack defenceless children fits into your ‘concept of honour’.”

He stares at me for a moment, thin-lipped. His hands clench tightly, then he relaxes, stretching his fingers out as if he’s about to close them around my throat.

“That,” he says icily, “is completely different. We have to protect our boundaries.”

Every instinct screams at me to keep quiet, to not risk saying anything that could send him off the deep end like I did yesterday. But if this is a war, then words are the only weapons he’s left me.

“But...”

He frowns. My voice trails off.

He raises an eyebrow. “You were saying?”

I breathe in, and out. My chest is so tight, it’s hard to force the words out.

“But isn’t it safer to make sure they know how to use the power properly? So that-” _so that they don’t blow themselves up or hurt everyone around them-_ “so that they don’t end up doing something that will accidentally reveal the existence of magic to Muggles?”

“There are more efficient ways of achieving that goal, Mudblood. And power should be reserved for those fit to wield it - if that wasn’t the case, we’d be teaching even goblins how to use wands.”

As if _he_ is fit to wield anything more dangerous than a lukewarm cup of tea? I give up.

I can’t give up.

He reaches into the folds of his robe, and brings out his wand. He runs his finger slowly down its length, and then holds it up in front of me.

“This,” he says softly, “is the difference between us. Magic is my birthright, Mudblood - passed down to me through generations of undiluted wizard blood, just as its traditions and proper usage have been passed on by my father, my grandfather and his grandfather before him. But to you Mudbloods, magic is just a tool - or worse, a game. I will not see it wielded with such disrespect.”

That wand... My eyes tell me it’s just a piece of inanimate black wood, such a small object to be the source of so much destruction. But my scars and my memories and my soul tell me the truth - that it’s not just the symbol, but the instrument of the power he has over me.

I shiver.

I have a strange urge to reach out and touch it. Not to take it - I wouldn’t dare to do that - but almost to reassure myself that it’s, well, _real_.

But he’d go mad if I put my hand anywhere near it. I spread my fingers against my legs and look past it. At him.

He’s watching me steadily, no trace of frown or sneer or smile. As if what he just said was... honest, or as close to honesty as he gets. He wasn’t saying that to make me hate him or even to belittle me. He meant it.

I look away.

He lowers his wand.

“Finally, a glimmer of understanding,” he says quietly. “You may act with a complete lack of respect, but that’s only because deep down you know how unworthy you really are, isn’t it?”

No! I will never accept that.

He frowns. “No? Well, we have time, little one. But you don’t fool me - I saw the look on your face a moment ago. This sort of power frightens you.”

“Only because you have a wand and I don’t.”

“But we’ve already been through that, haven’t we? I even allowed you a chance to duel me, the same chance that the Noble and Ancient Codes of Honour require me to give to a real witch - and you proved your inferiority most effectively. I see no reason to repeat the lesson.”

Bastard. Does he really expect me to believe that he let me try to Stupefy him out of _honour_ , of all things?

He sighs. “There’s clearly little point in trying to explain such things to you - and I really think I’ve had enough of trying for one day.” He gives me a sharp look.

_Okay, I get the message. You can’t come up with a convincing argument, so now I’m not allowed to speak._

He twirls his wand lazily, eyes narrowed. I look at the floor.

“Good. And now I think it’s time for you to answer a question for me.”

Uh-oh. What does he want now?

I raise my head. He smiles.

“Oh, there’s no need to look so worried. A matter of mere curiosity.”

_You’re not convincing me of the ‘no need to worry’ bit._

He puts his wand away, and idly checks the buttons on his gloves.

“Yesterday, you claimed you could reverse a Hagalaz Vector. Not doing too well so far, are you?”

Meaning that I still hate him. I can’t contradict that - right at this moment I can’t imagine _not_ hating him.

“No, your ignorance is matched only by your arrogance. I don’t suppose you have any idea of the... wider implications, do you?”

And who is he, to talk about arrogance?

I look at him carefully, trying to work out what he’s getting at.

“No, I can see that you don’t,” he says. “So typical of a Muggle to act without considering the consequences. Once these things have been set in motion...” He shrugs.

He’s watching me carefully, though. I keep my expression as blank as I can. I will _not_ show hatred, or fear, or... I’ll show him not to dismiss what I can do!

He smiles. “I do want you to remember one thing: _I_ hate _you_ , Mudblood. Nothing’s going to change that.”

“Why?”

His nostrils flare. “Did I not make it clear that I am asking the questions?”

I look down.

_Yeah, until you change your mind again._

He reaches towards me - I flinch as his fingers brush my throat. He draws his hand up under my chin, raising my head so that I can’t avoid looking at him.

So I do.

And he looks back with that slightly twisted, disdainful smile.

“Well,” he says. “I look forward to watching you attempt it, little one.”

He releases me and stands back.

“In the meantime, I have another little task for you.... so I want you to make sure that you are well rested, over the next few days. You will do that for me, won’t you?”

I nod. It’s what he wants to see.

He Disapparates.

The room plunges back into darkness. I’m almost used to that now.

I rub my eyes, and head for the bathroom. I’m not sure whether the sharp twinge I feel halfway towards the door is due to some lingering grains of powder the bastard has left as a reminder, or just the residue of memory... Perhaps that wasn’t even where the line was _._

Well, at least I don’t need to go back to that side of the room. All I want to do now is wash and then crawl into bed.

_He wants you to rest._

Oh great - at last, something we agree on. Though if he really wanted me to sleep he wouldn’t have told me about his ‘other little task’. I dread to think what he’s planning this time.

_Which is exactly the reaction he wanted. Don’t think about it_ _\- you’ll find out soon enough._

But... if he’s going to... to do what he did before, in that other room...

And the bastard was right. I still hate him. Which means he can still use me.

_Perhaps he was also right about it being impossible to stop him._

No. That’s just what he wants me to think.

_Or perhaps only what he wants to think himself?_

But how can I hope to control my reactions if every time he looks at me I can’t even think his _name_?

I can feel my body tense at the thought. It’s ridiculous! If I can say Voldemort, why can’t I say...

But I’ve never had to face Voldemort. I’ve never had Voldemort stroking my cheek and whispering in my ear about how much he wants to hear me scream...

I shudder, and concentrate on finding my way round the bathroom and back to the bed.

I lie on my back, staring into the dark.

How can I approach this? Approach _him_?

I have to make sure he can’t manipulate me like that again. And that means I have to reverse the Hagalaz Vector. But… every time I think about not hating him, it feels like there’s a snake writhing in my gut, twisting round to slash at me with poison fangs.

I do hate him, I’ve got far too many sodding _reasons_ to hate him. I can’t just pretend I don’t.

So… It’s not a question of just turning it back on itself. I can’t think ‘reverse the vector’, trip some kind of mental switch and, _hey presto_ , I won’t hate him anymore. If it were that easy he wouldn’t have been so surprised when I suggested it yesterday.

No, if there’s a way to do it, it’s something that wouldn’t be in any of his Dark Arts textbooks. _He_ thinks you have to fight darkness with darkness, but that only works if you want to end up in the dark. To fight the darkness itself you need a light…

Okay. The state of the Hagalaz Vector depends on my emotions, not the other way round. So that means I have to work with emotion, not magic. And there, at least, I must have an advantage over that heartless bastard.

He chose the battleground. Now I have to outmanoeuvre him.

Thinking of him as an enemy makes the problem seem more abstract, a puzzle to crack rather than a tormentor to react to. Or try not to react to.

So what do I know about him?

_That he’s an evil Dark wizard who takes a sadistic delight in making me suffer?_

That’s not helpful.

I try to picture him without the sneer, try to imagine how those pale grey eyes could hold something other than hate.

But then again, I have seen him without the sneer. Every time he looks into my eyes as if probing a bottomless abyss that no one else can see ... and, and before. After I...

_Don’t hide from it, Hermione! You can’t afford to be dishonest with yourself!_

After I cursed him, then. After I cast... cast Cruciatus.

Like a statue, I thought then. A relic of an ancient world, carved in stone.

Or ice.

I could just imagine him being happy to be compared to a statue. Standing on a plinth, his name carved underneath.

_luciusmalfoy_

There’s a prickle down my spine, but it makes it a little easier, thinking of him as a a lifeless sculpture. Detached, his regal mask firmly in place. Not snarling at me with his wand poised to strike-

_Lucius Malfoy._

And _not_ staring calmly into my eyes as if he could read my soul.

I push that image firmly from my mind, roll onto my side, and close my eyes.

.

I’m in the bathroom when he comes back. There’s a heavy blow to the door that doesn’t sound like a person knocking. Trust him - trust... _him_ to be so fastidious he can’t even knock on a bloody door without magic.

When I emerge, he sneers and throws down something white down at my feet.

“Merry Christmas, Mudblood.”

I freeze. _Christmas, does that mean I’ve been here for what, three weeks_ _\- only three weeks but it feels like forever..._ but it doesn’t matter.

I look down at the object in front of me. That, I have a horrible feeling, does.

It’s a white sheet, wrapped around...

I don’t want to know what it’s wrapped around. It’s a bit shorter than my arm, though I can’t guess anything from the shape. And it’s not moving, which can only be a good thing.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

I’m not exactly in a position to say no, am I?

I crouch down. I feel as if there’s a thick plate of glass between me and, well, everything, really.

It doesn’t smell of anything. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

I stop myself from looking up at him. It would only let him see however much of my creeping dread is showing on my face - he’s never going to let me off finding out what this is.

Or he might just take it away and I’d never know. That would be worse.

I hope it would be worse.

 _I have to know._ I focus on that as I pull the first fold of the sheet aside. Either he’s just playing a sick joke and there’s nothing in here at all - or else all I’m unwrapping is the evidence of how evil he is.

I pull at another part of the sheet. And I already know how evil he is. Nothing should surprise me, right?

I don’t want to know.

I tug at another corner of the sheet, and jerk my hand away at the sight of a ginger hair.

_Oh God, please say this is nothing to do with Ron’s dad._

Or Ron.

Or Fred or George or, oh _please_ not Ginny. Not after what he put her through in second year - that would be too horrible.

I swallow, and reach out to pull away the last fold. _I have to know._

It’s... not. _No._

My vision is suddenly blurred. I blink back the tears and reach out my hand...

I close my eyes. I don’t want to see. Or maybe I just want to believe that if I don’t look then the fur will be soft and warm, not matted and... cold.

_Why?_

I squeeze my eyes shut. A tear trickles down my cheek. I brush it away.

His footsteps ring on the stone. His robe rustles. I can hear him breathing.

I can’t look at him.

“Don’t you like your present, Mudblood?”

 _Shut up, shut up, how can you be so_ cruel _?_

I breathe in, and open my eyes. He’s crouching down on the other side of that little body, one eyebrow raised... I can’t look at him.

I should be feeling something. But I don’t.

“Why?” My voice sounds flat and distant.

He shrugs. “Why not?”

“You- you killed my cat.”

“Oh, that wasn’t me. But I will take credit for the idea.”

Credit? _You sick, evil-_

But I don’t want to think about him.

I run my hand along Crookshanks’ stiff back, half hoping that he’ll start to purr and arch into my hand.

But this isn’t Crookshanks. Crookshanks is gone.

_Oh God._

His familiar feline face is horribly twisted. Around the mouth an ugly yellow substance has dried on his fur.

I... I don’t think it was the Killing Curse that did this.

I almost wish that, that evil… I wish he _had_ done it. At least he would have done it... quickly.

_And I thought I was being kind when I rescued my gorgeous cat from that shop._

I wish I’d left him there, I wish some other witch had come along and taken him to a home where he would have been _safe_. 

_I’m so sorry..._

He stands up and reaches for his wand. “Well, if you don’t like it, I suppose I’d better get rid of it for you.”

_“No!”_

I kneel down and pull the body onto my lap. It’s so heavy and stiff that I can’t quite believe it has any connection with my lively, clever, beautiful cat but I can’t let go...

“No? And just what do you think you’re going to do with it?”

“Please... just for one night.” I stare up at him, pleading. “ _Please._ ”

I know I sound stupid and childish but that only means grief and guilt and love are stupid and childish and that means I’d rather be stupid and childish than like _him._

He looks down at me, frowning. The corner of his mouth twitches slightly.

_Please._

“If you must,” he says at last. “But I really don’t see why you’re so upset. I’d really have expected you to be glad it wasn’t your mother.”

He’s not human. Maybe that’s what he means by ‘real wizards’.

And... oh God this sounds awful, but... it almost feels more horrible that it wasn’t. It isn’t, I know, but I was _responsible_ for Crookshanks. I was supposed to take care of him, and now...

_I’m so sorry._

And not in the way I felt ‘sorry’ for _him_ yesterday. There was far too much hate in that, I realise now. But if I can’t use hate and I can’t use pity, then how can I possibly stop him from using me like he did before? Especially when he... when he could do _that_? I’m stuck.

 _You can’t_ _afford to be stuck._

“You know, I’d rather like to meet your mother,” he says. “I think we could have a most interesting time discussing why she raised you to be so disrespectful.”

He can’t. He _can’t._

“If you hate me so much,” I say quietly, “why don’t you just kill me and have done with it?”

“Ah, but that is my decision to make. And I don’t want to kill you, do I? Not yet, at least.”

Oh God, what did I do to deserve this? Why did _he_ get the power to decide whether I live or die?

“Your concern for your relatives is most touching, Mudblood,” he says with a sarcastic smile. “But if it’s genuine, you should remember that your mangy animal had rather more protection at Hogwarts than is provided in your ugly Muggle towns.”

 _And you still managed to... Yeah, I get the message, you evil_ bastard _._

“Bear that in mind tomorrow,” he says.

Tomorrow.

“Yes, Mudblood. You _will_ be on your best behaviour. And if you forget, I’ll be asking _you_ to choose which of your parents will pay the price. Or would it help you to focus your mind tomorrow if you told me now?”

What?

“Or perhaps you don’t really care about them as much as you pretend? They obviously didn’t care much about you, after all. What sort of parents would send their only child alone into a completely unknown society?”

How can he say that? Of course Mum and Dad care about me! They’d even planned to take me skiing because they thought I’d need a break before my OWLs - we should have been in France now, so someone will have told them I’m missing, surely? They must be frantic...

“That’s not true,” I say coldly. “They don’t feel the need to control me, that’s all. They trusted me to make up my own mind.”

“And look where that sentiment got you. Such irresponsible parenting - I would never have done such a thing.”

“But Mal- I mean, your son...”

“Yes?”

“He said you wanted to send him to Durmstrang.”

He chuckles nastily. “Do you really think Durmstrang is unfamiliar to me?”

No, actually, it wouldn’t surprise me if it wasn’t - from what Viktor told me about the place, there are certain similarities between his ‘teaching methods’ and Karkaroff’s. Unless that’s just a Death Eater thing.

“No,” he says, “Durmstrang has far more in common with Hogwarts - or at least, what Hogwarts would be, under a decent Headmaster - than you could ever hope to have in common with either. And Durmstrang, at least, recognises that fact enough to exclude the likes of you, so that it can offer a proper wizarding curriculum.”

He smiles. I hold Crookshanks’ body in front of me like a shield.

“But perhaps, Mudblood, you don’t believe me. Would you perhaps like a demonstration of what is taught at Durmstrang?”

I keep myself perfectly still, trying to hide my fear behind a neutral mask.

“So,” he says lazily. “Which of your dear parents would you like me to demonstrate on?”

He doesn’t want me to answer that. He can’t.

So why does he look as if he’s waiting for an answer?

“Don’t, please...” I stare at him in desperation. “What do you _want_ from me?”

He smiles. “Perhaps I want to see your reaction as you watch, little one. Or perhaps I want to see how well you’d perform under Imperius - and _then_ watch your reaction when you see what you’ve done. So tell me, would it be your mother, or your father?”

I- I... I can’t seem to think. There should be words at the front of my mind, something I could say to get me out of this, but there isn’t.

_Logic, Hermione._

But how can I possibly apply logic to this? Which of them would miss the other more? Which of them _I_ would miss more? Even thinking about it is obscene. How could I live with myself if I condemned Mum or Dad to... God, I _know_ what he can do, and that’s when he wanted to keep me alive.

No one could make such a choice.

But if I don’t... if I let him choose, that is itself a choice.

_Precisely - you’re damned either way. That’s the point, isn’t it?_

Although at least then the choice would be on his conscience.

_He doesn’t have a conscience!_

He stands up. “You are beginning to try my patience, Mudblood. Or is it perhaps that you wouldn’t want to separate them? That you would rather see them watch each other die?”

 _Oh God, he_ can’t.

He can. But he won’t - he’d lose his leverage over me if he did. He’d never do that.

He shrugs. “Well, perhaps we’ll just have to decide when the time comes, hmm? You clearly need more time to think about it.” His voice hardens. “And now, Mudblood, look me in the eye and tell me that you don’t hate me.”

And I look up into those proud grey eyes, and oh _God_ I hate him - for what he’s done and for what he’s threatening to do, and worse, for his incredible belief that he’s _right_ to do what he does... And I know I shouldn’t give in to the hate, I know he wants me to react this way, but right at the moment all that matters less than the fact that _one day I’ll make him pay._

He smiles. “Sleep well, little one. We have work to do tomorrow.”

But after he leaves I lie awake in the darkness, cradling Crookshanks’ body in my arms and crying all the tears for my dead cat that I’ve not been able to cry for myself.


	11. Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Christmas surprise brings tidings of truth, but Hermione struggles with goodwill, and comfort and joy have never come naturally to the Malfoys...

_“Lumos.”_

Under the blankets, I squeeze my eyes shut. I take a breath, and open them again. I can’t make him go away by pretending he’s not there.

“Where are we?”

It’s a new voice, a slightly nervous voice, and for a moment I can’t place it. Then I do.

How could he? How _could_ he?

It’s not going to be any easier if he has to drag me out of bed. I bury my fingers in Crookshanks’ limp fur, and sit up.

“Merry Christmas, Draco,” his father says.

I’ve never seen that smarmy little git look so surprised.

“ _Granger?_ But- but Father, you said that the Dark-”

“Miss Granger has already done her duty to the Dark Lord - haven’t you, Miss Granger?”

Why’s he being so polite all of a sudden?

I nod, slowly, twisting my hand in the sheets. I hope I’m supposed to nod.

“And now,” he continues in that horrible drawl, “it’s time for her to do her duty to us.”

_Oh God. What does he mean by that?_

I don’t want to know. Especially with the way Malfoy Junior is grinning.

“I’m glad to see you like your present,” says his father. “Miss Granger was rather less grateful for the one you sent her, I’m sorry to say.”

“The one _I_ sent?”

 _He_ \- ‘Lucius Malfoy’, I remind myself, but it feels doubly odd to call him that with his son standing next to him - points to the pillow beside me, where Crookshanks’ head is just visible. Malfoy - the younger one - laughs.

“The cat? She took it to _bed_ with her?”

So what if I did? It’s not as if either of them would understand what it is to _care_ about another living creature. Still, I half wish I hadn’t - I feel a little silly now. I try not to let it show.

The elder- _Lucius_ Malfoy shrugs. “How many times have I told you, Draco, that Muggles don’t maintain the same standards of hygiene as we do? I will leave you to dispose of the animal while I’m gone.”

“Yes, Father.”

I put my hand on the little body. Not that I could really stop them taking it.

“I don’t know why you care, Granger,” Malfoy says. “I reckon I did you a favour. That cat is so stupid I doubt it’d recognise your blood if it was fresh, let alone after-”

“Indeed,” says his father.

I stare at him.

 _Hah! So you killed Crookshanks so he couldn’t sense that my blood was in that powder? I wasn’t supposed to know that, was I? I was supposed to think you were just being cruel for the sake of it, but_ this _is what you meant when you said my blood might be traceable!_

Not that it makes what he did yesterday any _less_ cruel.

He reaches into his pocket and brings out a round silver object. He holds it between thumb and forefinger and peers at it.

_A watch. Like Dumbledore’s. It’s only a watch._

He smiles his lazy smile at me, then at his son.

“Well, I think I’ll leave you two to renew your acquaintance. I wouldn’t want you to be \- inhibited - by my presence. But do play nicely, Draco.”

Malfoy grins. “Do I have to?”

“For now, yes. And Miss Granger-”

“Yes?” I keep my tone level. It’s not easy.

He raises an eyebrow. “Now, Miss Granger, there’s no need to be rude.”

I grit my teeth. Does the bastard really have to be like this in front of _Malfoy_?

“Yes, Mr Malfoy,” I say, hating the blush that I can feel spreading across my face.

“Good girl. Now, do you remember our agreement yesterday?”

_That’d be the one where I have to choose which of my parents you’re going to murder if you decide I’m not on my ‘best behaviour’. How could I possibly forget?_

“Yes... I think you do,” he says. “Let’s just say that it starts from when I return, hmm?”

He means...

“Not from now?”

“You heard me. Not until I get back.”

“Y- yes, Mr Malfoy.”

At least, I _hope_ he means what I think he means.

He holds my gaze for a moment, then he smiles at his son, and Disapparates.

So now it’s just me and Malfoy. We stare at each other.

It’s odd, seeing him out of school robes. The ones he’s wearing now are dark green. Not velvet, like he had at the Yule Ball - strange to think that was only a year ago - but a fine-woven wool with embroidered cuffs that exude wealth and privilege. And he’s wearing close-fitting black gloves, just like his father. A proper little lordling of the manor - it’s hard to relate this boy to the spoilt brat we’ve had to put up with through four years of Potions classes.

His attitude, though, hasn’t changed a bit.

“So what was all that about?” he says.

I shrug. “Why don’t you ask your father?”

“I’m asking you, Granger.”

“What, you mean he didn’t tell you? I thought he told you everything.”

His face turns slightly pink. He pulls out his wand and for a moment I’m sure he’s going to hex me. But he just smirks.

“Oh look! I have a wand - and you don’t. Do you know what that means?”

It means, I suddenly realise, that I might have a chance of getting out of here. If I could get Malfoy’s wand, if I could hold him hostage... maybe I could get his father to bring me a Portkey that works. I try to keep that thought, that unhoped-for flash of hope, from showing on my face. Lucius Malfoy would have seen it immediately, but Malfoy is too busy gloating.

“It means, Granger, that you have to do as I say.”

_Funny_ _\- your father said pretty much the opposite._

I give him my best disdainful look. “Draco Malfoy, you are nothing but a coward and a bully. I’ve never been afraid of you and I never will be!”

“And you’re nothing but a filthy, stupid Mudblood!”

“Oh, sticks and stones, Malfoy.”

“What _are_ you on about?”

A playground taunt - he’s dragging me down to his level, I know, but after weeks of dealing with his father’s brutal manipulation, it’s almost a relief to be this petty. So I half-chant it, as if I were nine again and thumbing my nose at that snooty cow Elisa who thought she was so much better that me just because her dad had bought her a pony.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me!”

But Malfoy just laughs. “Words will never hurt you? Only a Muggle could be that stupid!” He twirls his wand between his fingers in an uncanny imitation of his father. “So, Granger, why don’t you shut that fat mouth of yours and get out of bed?”

Oh, original. Like father, like son.

But _not_.

“Whatever.” I swing my feet to the floor and stand up. I quickly straighten the bedclothes - I do not want his father taunting me about that when he gets back.

“Holy shit, Granger! What in Hades happened to you?”

He’s talking about the scar, I suppose, the one on my left cheek - it was facing away from him before. Or maybe the one at my elbow, before my sleeve fell to cover it, or the ones on the back of my legs from the second day. Or the ones seared into my soul, less visible but so much deeper.

“What do you think happened?” I snap. “Trips to the seaside?”

He blinks.

He really doesn’t get it. He’s learnt all the arrogant posturing from his father well enough, but everything he’s said at school was just talk, an attempt to make himself look bigger than he is. It’s as if he’s never really grasped the cold cruel reality behind it.

It shouldn’t surprise me. He couldn’t see the Thestrals, after all.

I shake my head. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know what would happen when you sent me here.”

He folds his arms. “Yeah, Granger, I reckon I did. It hardly took a crystal ball to predict that Potty and the Weasel King were going to run round blaming your disappearance on me. Professor Umbridge really isn’t happy with them, especially seeing as everyone _knows_ that you just ran away because you couldn’t handle the pressures of OWL-year.”

_“What?”_

“No surprise there, of course,” he smirks. “I always knew you couldn’t deal with what was expected of a _real_ witch.”

“You rotten little-”

“Don’t interrupt me, Granger. Don’t you want to know what’s been happening while you’ve been away?”

God, yes. And Malfoy has such a big mouth, maybe he’ll actually tell me.

“Oh, let me guess,” I say, as scornfully as I can manage. “Umbridge is trying to sack Hagrid because she thinks Flobberworms are too dangerous, the _Daily Prophet_ is telling more lies about Harry, and Ron’s mum has been seized by some mysterious illness?”

Normally he’d have seized any excuse to correct me. But now he just grins.

“Wouldn’t you like to know? Though now you mention it, I didn’t see any of the weasels on the train home, and Potter wasn’t anywhere to be found, either. I wonder where they all disappeared to?”

My mouth is dry. “Maybe they decided to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas.”

“But no one saw them at breakfast, either. Most unlike the weasels to miss a meal - the way they eat, you’d think their mum and dad couldn’t afford to feed them at home. Want to know what I think?”

_Not particularly._

He lowers his voice. “I think they couldn’t handle the pressure either. I think they decided to do a runner - just like you.”

 _Just like me..._ No.

“You’re lying.”

“Are you sure about that?”

No. He might be making it all up. But he might not. Anything could be happening out there.

“But maybe you’re right,” he continues. “Maybe it’s just that Weasley’s too ashamed to show his face, after his complete failure in the last Quidditch match. I’ve been watching him practice, you know, and he’s even worse since you left. That’s quite an achievement, Granger - I really didn’t think that was possible.”

“Ron’s worth ten of you, Malfoy!”

“Ooh, getting touchy, are we? Do you _like_ little Ronniekins?”

“Of course I like him! He’s one of my best friends!”

He grins. “Oh, is that what you Gryffindors call it?”

I glare at him. I’m blushing, I don’t really know why. I wish I wasn’t.

Malfoy’s face is flushed. “Oh, do tell, Granger,” he breathes. “Is he any better at snogging than Quidditch? Has he put the Quaffle through the hoop?”

“That’s gross.” I look him in the eye. “And why would _you_ be so interested in Ron’s sex life, anyway?”

He scowls. “I’m only interested in how pathetic you and your friends are,” he says. “And how you _still_ manage to win the House Championship every single year, just because Dumbledore thinks the sun shines out of Potter’s backside.”

“That’s not true! Professor Dumbledore is completely fair!”

“Oh really? We _won_ the House Championship in first year, and he just took it away from us, in front of the whole school, right in the middle of the feast! How fair was that?”

I’ve never really thought of it like that. But Malfoy never got caught in the Devil’s Snare or had to face those giant chess-pieces, either.

“This year, it’s going to be different,” he gloats. “We would have wiped Gryffindor off the pitch last month if it hadn’t been for Potter’s stroke of luck - and now that he’s not on the team any more, all the other houses will do the same. We’re going to _win_ this year.”

This is so puerile. He’s talking as if we were back in Hogwarts.

_Oh, how I wish we were._

“Malfoy,” I say, looking pointedly at the stone walls surrounding us, “do you _really_ think I give a damn about the Quidditch Cup?”

He stares at me for a moment, then chuckles. “Oh, I forgot - you’re not going to be around to see it, are you?”

I can feel myself shaking. How- how can he just say something like that? We’ve always been enemies, but I never really thought he hated me _this_ much.

“You’re right, Granger,” he sneers, “this isn’t just about Quidditch. It’s about winning and losing. And _you_ have already lost.”

I blink rapidly a couple of times, then I turn and stalk towards the bathroom.

“Don’t just walk away, you stupid Mudblood!”

I ignore him.

There’s a _crack_ like a rifleshot and something hot whizzes past my ear. I can smell singed hair.

I whirl round.

“I told you-” he begins.

“Attacking a defenceless opponent from behind? A coward and a bully, Malfoy - I think you’ve just proved my point.”

He stands there with his mouth open.

“Oh,” I say, “and I really would have thought you’d be able to aim that spell by now. You’ve had a whole year to practise, after all.”

He closes his mouth. I flee to the bathroom and slam the door.

Oh God. That was stupid. Really stupid. What on earth am I antagonising him for?

 _Because he’s such a stupid_ git _!_

I grab onto the sink and breathe deeply. I will not cry. I will not cry.

I splash my face with water.

_Please God, let him be lying about Ron and Harry._

But what if it’s not only me that’s missing? What if some of my friends are locked up like this too?

_You could go mad thinking like that._

Which is probably what they want.

“You’d better come out of there, Granger!” Malfoy calls. “My father’s not going to be very happy if he finds you skulking in the bathroom.”

He’s right. I wash quickly, trying to think.

L- Lucius Malfoy didn’t _want_ me to kow-tow to his son.

_So maybe you should have._

No way!

But that’s the point, isn’t it? How could I _not_ seize the opportunity to let out all the anger and frustration and hopelessness of the last few weeks? He must have known that \- but I don’t see why he’d want me to do it.

_Because he wants to see how much you hate him._

But if he still wants to control the Hagalaz Vector, wouldn’t he want me to bottle up that hate, to turn it against myself rather than fighting back?

_Unless he’s planning to go back on what he said about the ‘agreement’ not starting yet.._

Oh God, please don’t let that be it.

So what do I do now? If I’m going to act with integrity, I should be taking the chance to talk to Malfoy. If I can get through to him, if I can even scratch the surface, there might have been some point to all this.

But it’s more important to get out of here. To help my friends, if I can. And I don’t know how much time I have until _he_ comes back.

I open the door. And stifle a cry.

Malfoy’s standing right in front of the door. Smirking.

“Scared, Granger?”

“No.”

“You really _are_ stupid, aren’t you?”

I take a deep breath. I will not let him get to me.

“Come on out then,” he says, taking a few steps back. “I was starting to think I’d have to Vanish your cat without you.”

Crookshanks. If only I’d been able to protect him! There’s a skewer through my gut every time I think of it.

“Malfoy...?”

“What?”

I hold his gaze, pleading. “Let me do it. Please?”

He laughs. “You what?”

“ _Please._ How would you feel if someone did that to your owl?”

“I’d get my father to buy me another one. And why should I do you a favour after what you said to me?”

“Look... you don’t know what it’s like. I’ve been stuck down here for _three weeks_ -”

“Slightly more than three weeks, Granger. Forgotten how to count?”

_No, you moron, I’ve no way of knowing what day it is!_

I will _not_ let him get to me.

“I didn’t mean to have a go at you, Malfoy,” I say quietly. “It’s just this place...”

“Really? And what was your excuse for being such a stupid cow at school?”

_Stay calm, Hermione._

But what’s the use? All he wants to do is bait me. He’s as bad as his father - and even his father let me have a conversation with him. Sort of.

“So what you’re saying, Granger, is that if I let you Vanish your cat yourself, you’ll apologise?”

I meet his eyes. “If that’s what you want, yes.”

He folds his arms. “And you’ll apologise for attacking me on the train last summer?”

I nod. Anything to get him to agree.

“And for slapping me in third year?”

He remembers that? That’s kind of satisfying.

“Yes.”

He grins. “Oh, this I have to hear. Granger, the Great Gryffindor Mudblood, admitting she was wrong?”

“I’m not like that, Malfoy. Really.”

“Prove it, then.”

I try to look humble. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I had a go at you earlier. I’m sorry about what happened on the train. I’m sorry I hit you.”

_But you really had it coming..._

“And you won’t do it again?”

“No.”

“You really are pathetic, Granger.”

I stare at him, stung.But I shouldn’t expect anything else from a Slytherin.

“If you say so,” I say. “May I Vanish my cat, now?”

He shrugs. “If you insist.”

He holds out the wand. I reach for it.

He snatches it back, laughing. “As if, Granger. How thick do you think I am?”

_Well, it was worth a try._

I stare numbly as he walks over to the bed and picks Crookshanks up by his hind legs. He swings the body slightly as he carries it to the centre of the room.

“Oh, but do keep begging,” he says. “It suits you.”

_Right, you obnoxious little git. Time for Plan B._

“Do you want me to tell you how it died?” he asks.

No. But I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of telling him so. And I need to distract him.

“Pity you couldn’t have seen it,” he says. “It really was... impressive. At one point I even thought it was going to cough its guts up.”

I don’t want to know. Why can’t he just get on with it?

“Serves it right for confusing Temporarily Transfigured Penetrating Potion for cream. Honestly Granger, if I was going to sleep with an animal, at least I’d choose something intelligent.”

“Well, that rules Pansy Parkinson out then, doesn’t it?”

His face goes a mottled shade of scarlet. “You wait, Granger,” he snarls. “I thought my father had taught you some respect.”

“Your father-”

I stop. I don’t want to discuss that with him. Not with anyone.

“Cat got your tongue, has it? Oh, but it can’t have. It’s dead.”

“Really? How many times do you have to crow about that before you finish the job? Or can’t you do a Vanishing Spell?”

He rounds on me. “You,” he says coldly, “are pushing it. Do you really want me to show you what spells I can do? Because we still have some time before my father gets back.”

There’s nothing I can think of to say to that.

I watch him as he positions himself, wipes his wand on his sleeve, swallows, flicks the wand experimentally, swallows again, raises the wand, prepares to speak... 

_“Evanesco!”_

I spring at him. He jumps away.

_“IMPEDIMENTA!”_

His spell throws me to the floor.

“Nice try, Granger, but not quite quick enough,” he sneers. _“Petrificus totalus!”_

I fight back the wave of panic as my limbs go rigid. I _know_ what this spell feels like. I know I’ll still be able to breathe even though I’ve lost control of all my muscles. I stare at the crazy-paving patterns on the ceiling. It helps me to not think about how I’m not able to _move._

 _“Evanesco,”_ he says. _“Evanesco!”_

_Oh come on, Malfoy, it’s not that hard. It’s not even a moving target._

It takes him five more attempts to complete the spell.

_Goodbye, beautiful gorgeous marmalade cat._

At least, I assume he manages to complete the spell before he comes over to gloat at me again. His approaching footsteps thud slightly, unlike his father’s resonant clicking. He’s brought the chair over from the desk and he sits on it, gazing down at me.

“Do you want to know what I’m going to do to you?” he says quietly. “Or shall I just let you think about it?”

I am _not_ afraid of Malfoy. Especially if he can’t even manage a simple Vanishing Spell.

He just looks me slowly up and down. It would make me shiver, if I could. Hate, twisted with... I don’t know. Too much like the way his father looks at me sometimes.

“It’s a pity you’re so ugly,” he says. “Stupid frizzy hair, stupid rabbit teeth, stupid filthy Mudblood body...”

I really don’t want to listen to this.

“Of course,” he continues, “if you’d be willing to try some Polyjuice Potion, things could get a _lot_ more interesting. And you would be willing, wouldn’t you? Because from now on, you have to do everything I tell you.”

I stare past him. I do _not_ want to look at the way his eyes are gleaming. He’s... he’s not being like _Malfoy_ , not like the way Malfoy was at school.

But then, I always had a wand at school, didn’t I? And I’ve never been alone with him before.

_“Finite Incantatem.”_

I guess the little git prefers taunting me when I can show a reaction. I sit up and stretch, avoiding his gaze. I shift myself backwards, away.

“Stay where you are, Granger.”

He has his wand pointed at me. I move back another few centimetres, just to make a point.

“Is that it, Granger? I’ve just told you I can do anything I like to you, and you’re just sitting there?”

“You can’t,” I say.

“Oh yes I can.”

“You can’t. Your father said you couldn’t.”

He laughs. “My father said I couldn’t _yet_. Weren’t you listening?”

“And you won’t.”

“What?”

“I’m a _Mudblood_ , remember? You know: inferior, filthy, untouchable?”

He gets up and walks slowly around me to stand just behind my back. He’s obviously trained in his father’s school of intimidation.

“That’s what my father would say. And he’s right, Granger. You are nothing but a useless, filthy Mudblood. But with Polyjuice…” I can hear the smirk in his voice. “I could be more… open-minded. It may come as a surprise to you, but I _don’t_ just parrot everything my father tells me. I’d have thought you would approve of that.”

He walks back towards the chair.

I lunge forward and wrap my arms round his legs, squeezing them together so he loses balance and topples forward with an indignant yell. I roll away and clutch at his wand-hand, pinning it to the floor while I reach for the wand with my other hand.

“No way, Granger!”

He grabs at my waist and pulls me backwards, so I can’t maintain the pressure on his wrist as I fall onto my side. I try to twist round to grasp for his wand again but he forces my shoulder onto the floor and I hear a rattle as he throws the wand away out of reach. Then he’s leaning over me, his hands pressing down on my arms and the rest of him well out of kicking range.

It seems that ferret-boy is stronger than he looks.

“You don’t give up, do you? What did you think you were going to do with that wand?”

“Use your imagination, Malfoy. If you have one, that is.”

I shouldn’t goad him. I don’t fancy my chances of getting to that wand before he does. But nothing I say is going to make him _worse._ And I have to get that wand. I have to get out of here.

He’s smirking. “I didn’t think you wanted to know about my imagination.”

“You’re sick. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

“I hardly think you’re in a position to pass judgement, Granger.”

I wait for him to move, and tense slightly to race him to the wand. But he doesn’t.

“You should have listened to me when I told you to keep your stupid mouth shut, back in first year,” he sneers. “But you couldn’t, could you? You were just having too much fun showing the rest of us up, bragging about your wonderful marks. You thought you were so clever, didn’t you? And look where it got you.”

I sigh. “Is that what this is about? That I know more spells than you?”

“Don’t bet on that. I know spells that have never been taught at Hogwarts - not that a Mudblood would know anything about that sort of thing.”

“Oh, come on. If we both had wands I could beat you easily, and you know it.”

“Considering that you’ve never fought me without your friends to back you up, that’s quite a claim to make.” He grins. “Especially when we’re down here, where I can use _any_ of the spells I know without being detected.”

“Does that make you feel big, Malfoy? What are you going to do? Cast Unforgivable Curses at me?”

“I could. Maybe I will.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m that worried, if your Vanishing Spell is anything to go by.”

“And I suppose you’re going to tell me you can cast Unforgivables, are you?”

I look him straight in the eye. “Why don’t you ask your father about that?”

He gapes at me for a moment. “He made you cast one?”

“Goaded me, more like. I doubt he thought it was such a good idea when he was rolling about the floor screaming.”

Malfoy stares at me. He lets out a harsh laugh. “Do you really expect me to _believe_ that?”

“Ask him.”

“Don’t be stupid. And let him think I believed you? I haven’t got a death-wish.”

“What, too scared to ask your _wonderful_ father for the truth?”

He scowls. “You don’t know anything.”

“When it comes to your father,” I say quietly, “I know more than I ever wanted to know.”

“You couldn’t touch him.”

_Yeah, it’s not as if Lucius Malfoy would go for someone if they actually stood a chance of beating him..._

“So he’s a coward.”

He’ll hit me for that, he’s bound to hit me... And if he gets off me I have a chance of getting the wand.

But he just grips my arms, so hard it makes me gasp.

“How _dare_ you say such a thing, you filthy Mudblood scum!”

“Because it’s true. He’s as big a coward as you are - he’s just better at hiding it. Look at who he chooses to pick on! Me. Ginny Weasley. Those Muggles at the World Cup. And now, eleven-year-old children on their first trip to Diagon Alley.”

“Shut up, Granger.”

“Why? Can’t handle the truth? Why are you all so bothered about Muggleborns? Because you’re _scared_ of us!”

“Really, Draco,” his father drawls. “You aren’t going to let her get away with that kind of slander, are you?”

Oh no.

I close my eyes.

Malfoy lets go of me. I open my eyes and sit up.

Lucius Malfoy is leaning against the desk, a slight smile on his lips as if he finds us mildly amusing. But there’s nothing amusing about that look in his eyes.

Oh _God._

“What a touching little tableau,” he says. “But I think you can both get up now.”

How much did he hear?

_Enough. More than enough._

And more to the point, is he going to treat that ‘agreement’ as starting from the time he came back, or the time I realised he was there?

I feel very cold. I just about manage to scramble to my feet.

Was he intending this to happen?

Malfoy must be having a right laugh at me now, just like he did when they cornered me in the bookshop last summer...

But he’s not smirking when I glance at him. He’s tense and his earlier flush is completely gone. Standing this close, I can see he’s biting his lip slightly. I can also see that his wand is still on the floor.

It’s only a metre away. And behind us. If I could get it I could use Malfoy as a shield.

But if I couldn’t, his father would go for one of my parents for sure.

“Don’t even think about it, Miss Granger. Come here.”

So I do. I’m not sure when I stopped debating with myself over every order he gave me. It must have been a while ago. Now, I couldn’t imagine not doing as he says when he speaks to me like that.

He smiles at me, a smile that might have seemed pleasant if it was on someone else’s face, and if he wasn’t _looking_ at me like that. I can feel my heart thumping.

“Well, Miss Granger,” he says softly. “Fascinating as it is to hear you being so forthright about what you really think of me, I think we’ve heard quite enough from you for now.” He raises his voice. “Draco. I believe you have been studying Silencing Charms. Would you care to demonstrate?”

“On her?”

“You didn’t think I meant me, did you?”

Malfoy hurriedly bends down to retrieve his wand.

“Turn around, Miss Granger.”

Turning my back on Lucius Malfoy is the last thing I want to do. But I do it. I have no choice.

Malfoy stands up, grinning now. It’s almost as unpleasant as his father’s smile.

“You know, Granger,” he drawls, “I’ve been wanting to do this for years.”

“Hmm. I can understand why,” his father says.

Bastards, both of them. They’re as bad as each other.

_That’s not true. Never fool yourself into thinking that._

In front of me, Malfoy lifts his wand, swallowing. He’s being more careful to hide his uncertainty in front of his father. I stare at him, sneering slightly, willing the stupid git to mess it up.

_“Silencio!”_

There’s a tingling sensation in my nose, mouth, throat.It fades slowly.

_“Caedo.”_

I scream - but I can’t. Lucius Malfoy’s spell, Lucius Malfoy’s slashing _pain_ across the back of my calf, running down my leg in a warm trickle of my blood. I stagger against the desk.

“Oh, do keep still, Miss Granger. It’s only a little pain.”

Compared to the Cruciatus, that’s true. But then I’d be writhing on the floor not even aware of my surroundings and this still hurts hurts HURTS.

I grip the desk and bite my lip and blink back tears.

_“Sano.”_

Warmth. No pain. I take a deep, shuddering breath. I’m still holding onto the desk.

“I’d say that test is conclusive. Well cast, Draco.”

God, I, I... _can’t let myself_ hate him, no matter how much of a complete and utter sadistic _bastard_ he is.

“Now, Miss Granger...,” he says.

I turn around, swallowing. It’s odd how much more defenceless I feel without my voice, as if mere words could have saved me from whatever he’s planning.

Malfoy Junior isn’t smiling any more.

“I’m afraid,” his father continues, all falsely honey-sweet, “that I just can’t allow your lies of a few minutes ago to go unpunished. I’m sure you’ll agree.”

I look at the floor. Everything I said was _true_. Maybe it’s a good thing they cast this spell on me - at least this way I can’t say anything I’ll regret.

Except that...

I turn to stare up at him, willing him to understand.

_Me, not my mum and dad! I didn’t know you were there!_

“Ah, I expect you’re worried about our agreement, aren’t you? Hmm...”

Please. _Please._

“Well, litt- Miss Granger... Entertaining as it would be to enforce those terms to the letter, I find myself inclined to be lenient this once, providing we can agree on an appropriate punishment. Would you like that?”

I nod. His smile broadens.

“Excellent. Now, let’s suppose for a moment that your ridiculous assertion were true. That would mean that you’d stolen my wand, wouldn’t it?”

Not necessarily - he could theoretically have given it to me. But that’s splitting hairs. And is also irrelevant. It’s where he’s going with it that’s important.

“And whether or not that is the case, I believe you _have_ attempted to steal Draco’s wand this afternoon.” He looks over my shoulder at Malfoy, and raises an eyebrow. “Am I right?”

“Well...”

“Yes or no, Draco?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Yes. I thought as much. We will discuss that later.” He returns his gaze to me. “Are you aware, Miss Granger, that in some countries the penalty for stealing a wand is the loss of the thief’s wand-hand?”

He can’t mean... He _can’t._

He can.

_Oh God._

I feel sick. Numb.

He’s smiling even more now, drinking in the dawning of my horrified comprehension.

“Don’t you think that would be a suitable penalty, Miss Granger?”

He can’t expect me to answer that.

“You do have a choice in the matter. We could, if you prefer, revert to our original agreement.”

And he’d probably do this, and worse, to Mum or Dad. And then do the same to me anyway. The pain can’t be worse than Cruciatus. It can’t. By definition it can’t be worse.

_That’s not saying much._

And... it’s my _hand_. Is this what he’s going to do, chop me to pieces bit by bit?

Isn’t that what he said he’d do, a couple of days ago? _‘There are things I could take from you much more painfully than blood...’_

It’s... there’s no word for it.

But these things do happen to people. You read it in the papers all the time.

I never thought it could happen to me. But I suppose that’s what all the others thought, those people who were students and mothers and daughters and friends, leading nice normal lives before some bastard branded them ‘victim’.

Ron and Harry will remember me as me, not like... this. Assuming they’re still alive themselves.

“Come here, Draco.”

He steps forward to stand beside his father. I turn my head away.

“That was _not_ a cue for you to hide your face, Miss Granger.”

I swallow, and look at him. At them.

Lucius Malfoy is still wearing that terrible smile. His son’s face is completely white, and he’s not smiling at all. Both of them are watching me as if I’m a caged rabbit in a lab. All I want to do is turn and run. I wish I were anywhere but here.

“Now, observe,” _he_ says. “See how pale she is? How her lower lip is trembling slightly?”

“Yes, Father.”

“What else do you see?”

“Erm...” He’s searching my face, peering at me as if he’s trying to translate some sort of runescript. I try to catch his eye. How many times have we sat in the same classroom? Even a sign of hate would be welcome, some acknowledgement that I’m human.

“Her eyes,” he says at last.

“What about her eyes?”

“Her pupils are dilated, and she’s blinking a lot.”

“Good. What else?”

“Um, she’s breathing quickly?”

“Indeed. And not particularly steadily. What does all that tell you?”

“That she’s scared?”

“Hmm. A little more than that, I think. I would say that our Miss Granger is almost hysterical, and probably would be completely hysterical if she didn’t have a very good idea of how much worse that would make things for her.” He holds my gaze. “Would you say that assessment is correct, Miss Granger?”

I nod, trying to blink back tears that come from humiliation as much as fear. It was bad enough when he was playing to Macnair, but this... I couldn’t feel more exposed if he stripped me naked.

“Yes,” he murmurs. For a moment I think he’s about to reach out and run his thumb along my jaw. But he doesn’t. I find myself shuddering as if he had.

“Yes, Draco,” he says again. “Learning to distinguish the nuances of fear is like learning to appreciate a fine wine. You will learn to master both, in time.”

I try to catch Malfoy’s eye, but he’s avoiding my gaze.

“Yes, Father,” he says tonelessly.

What was that about not parroting your father? Can’t you see it? He is a coward! He just needs everyone around him to be more afraid than he is!

“But I fear that Miss Granger disagrees. I think that she would rather we just get on with it... yes?”

Yes.

_No._

He smiles. “So, Miss Granger. Are you going to give us your answer? If you’re willing to accept this... concession, nod your head. Shake your head, and we’ll go back to our original agreement.”

For a moment I have a wild fantasy of keeping my head motionless so that we’ll be caught in this limbo for ever, or until someone comes to rescue me. Because this _can’t_ happen.

And then I nod my head.

He nods slightly in response, his gaze holding mine.

“Are you really going to cut off her hand?” asks Malfoy. His voice is slightly higher than usual.

“No, Draco. You’re going to do that.”

Malfoy swallows audibly. I hadn’t thought he could get any paler than he was before.

“Do you think you can manage that?” Lucius Malfoy’s voice is quiet, but there’s no mistaking the steel underneath. Malfoy recognises it too, clearly.

“Y-yes, Father.”

What did I expect? That he was going to refuse? That it would have made any difference if he had? Why would Malfoy care what happens to me? The selfish little git can always feed me Polyjuice if he doesn’t like the look of me without a hand.

Without a hand.

_Don’t think about it._

I’m surprised I can still stand up, my legs feel so shaky.

“Miss Granger. If you would just go round to the other side of the desk.”

I do. He follows close behind.

“Bend over.”

I lean across the desk and he pushes me down so that my left cheek is resting on the wooden desktop. He keeps his hand at the small of my back. It’s as if his hatred is searing into my flesh where he’s touching me, as if I’ll be branded by his malice forever.

As I will.

“Now, listen closely, Draco,” he says.

I close my eyes in despair - why can’t he get _on_ with it?

“What you see here,” he goes on, “is a classic demonstration of the difference between fear and respect. I think it is safe to say that Miss Granger loathes me, much as she’s trying to deny it. Yes, even though she knows how hating me only makes things worse, I suspect at the moment she’d be very happy to see me die a very slow and painful death.”

He brushes my hair away from my cheek. I jump at the feather-light touch, opening my eyes.

“Don’t worry,” he says, smiling down at me, “I won’t make you answer that.”

He continues his lecture. “And yet, you will observe that she obeys all my commands, immediately and unquestioningly. That, Draco, is entirely due to fear - some of it recent, which is uppermost in her thoughts, I think, and some that has been slowly seeping into her subconscious mind since the day we brought her here. Never confuse that ingrained fear with respect - you heard for yourself how little of _that_ she has learned.”

And he smiles at me again. “But you will learn, by the time I’ve finished with you,” he says quietly. “I can promise you that.”

_If it’s respect you want, you’ve got a bloody strange way of going about it..._

“But first...” he says, “your hand, if you would?”

My hands – both hands, two hands – are still on the desk, one on each side of my head. I- I can’t seem to move either of them.

“Your _wand_ hand, Miss Granger. There isn’t any point otherwise, is there?”

My right hand twitches, but I _can’t_.

His gloved fingers curl around my wrist, just like they did when he prised his wand out of my hand before I stabbed him... and he stretches my arm out to the right.

_Oh God..._

I’m shaking. I hate myself for it. I hate being so weak in front of him. Them.

“There, that’s not so difficult, is it?” he says softly. “It’s not as if you’re going to need it, after all: you were never going to touch a wand again, hand or no hand. This is just a little reinforcement of the lesson you learned before, to help you resist the temptation to touch that to which you have no right.”

But this has nothing to do with taking his wand, and everything to do with what I said to Malfoy about him. I know that, as clearly as I can see that he doesn’t want to spell it out in front of his son. He doesn’t have to spell it out. It’s written in his hard, triumphant eyes.

He touches his wand to my wrist and trails it lightly up to my shoulder. I don’t need to try to move my arm to know that I can’t.

He’s still looking down at me. Our eyes meet. The corner of his lip twitches.

“Would you like to watch?” he asks.

I shudder. I’m glad I can’t answer.

Maybe I’ll just pass out from the shock. Or die. There’d be no more pain then.

“Well, as you’re facing in the right direction, I suppose you might as well. But I must warn you not to try to distract Draco. We wouldn’t want him to miss his aim, would we? I’m sure you would regret it far more than we would, if it took more than one blow to sever the joint properly...”

I close my eyes, deliberately, shutting out the mocking smirk as I can’t shut out the mocking words. In one corner of my mind there’s a desperate voice saying _please God don’t let him do it please please no..._ but it feels like it’s on the other side of a thick glass wall. What’s the point of praying? The only thing that’s going to stop him is if Professor Dumbledore appears with his wand ablaze with light like when he came to rescue Harry from Barty Crouch Junior last summer... but then Harry’s the one that gets rescued. Back in second year he got Godric Gryffindor’s sword and a Phoenix and I all got was a mirrorful of Basilisk-eye, and the only reason I didn’t die that time was because I’d worked out what Slytherin’s monster was on my own, before any of them. That’s what I’m supposed to do, isn’t it, that’s what I’ve done every year since I came into this world: help Harry get through the obstacles so he can go have the final confrontation on his own. _I’m_ not supposed to need rescuing. It’s my own fault I got in too deep this time.

Though in the end it’s Voldemort that Harry’s supposed to be facing, not Lucius Malfoy. So perhaps this is the same pattern, perhaps my being here _is_ helping Harry, somehow, as if for some reason he can only get to Voldemort if I’m sacrificed to the Malfoys. At least that way there’d be some point to this.

I ought to be able to accept it, for Harry’s sake, for the sake of the wizarding world, and in theory I could, I suppose, but still there’s that voice in the back of my head desperately praying for a miracle and saying I’d do anything to avoid this...

Not ‘anything’. I did havea choice.

Those voices behind me, one quietly instructive _remember not to look at the blade, look at where you want it to fall_ and the other with yes father and no father and three bags full father, just that little too loud to be at ease.

_You’re not the only one who can read the sodding nuances of fear, Malfoy._

But I don’t want to listen to them, not in these last minutes - seconds? - when I can still wriggle my fingers _(fingers that learned umpteen permutations of a perfect wand-flick, fingers that used to run through the soft orange fur of a now-murdered cat, fingers that trailed in the water when Grandpa Granger took me rowing on the lake...)_ As soon as they finish their cosy little father-to-son chat... I know what they’re going to do, but I can’t grasp it. You can’t accept the unacceptable.

Maybe, in the end, that’s all I can accept. I don’t have to pretend that I can predict what he’s going to do afterwards, that I can deal with his sadistic games. I just need to know that I can’t, that whatever I do he’ll always be able to come up with some new atrocity that will throw me far beyond any limit I could hope to hold on to. There’s no point in trying to get my head round it. And there’s no point in hating it, either. It just _is_.

It’s very quiet, I realise. I listen.

Not a sound.

Or maybe... breathing?

Or is it just my breathing?

One... Two... Three... Four... Five breaths...

I open my eyes.

And the reality that I can’t escape or accept is standing before me, waiting, two pale figures with blond hair and empty eyes and black gloves and in one of those gloves is the instrument of my fate, gleaming bright like one of their fanged cloak-clasps.

It’s an axe, a small silver axe that Malfoy is gripping as if it would twist round to bite him if he didn’t. As if _he_ had anything to fear from that wide, hungrily sharp blade.

But sharp is good, isn’t it?

_The end result is the same._

Why? _Why?_ What have I ever done to deserve this?

_Nothing. Existing. That’s not the point anyway._

I can’t take my eyes off that fine-honed edge. I’m going to be sick.

“It’s beautiful - is it not, Miss Granger?”

_It’d be beautiful if it was buried in your horrid bastard neck._

He moves around the desk, standing beside me now, leaving Malfoy alone with his face rigid and slightly green.

“Yes,” he murmurs, “It is always best to use the proper tools, no matter how inferior the material we have to work with.”

_Bastard._

Malfoy is scowling. God knows why.

I can feel _his_ hand between my shoulders again. I don’t know why he’s bothering - it’s not as if I can move my arm anyhow. But that slight warmth... I ought to hate it, but something in me clings, craves the reassurance of what would be a human contact if it wasn’t him that was doing this to me.

Malfoy looks at me then, only for a fraction of a second before looking up at his father, at this black and silent creature who’s standing behind me with his hand warm on my back.

Whatever he sees makes him straighten his back, blank his expression, take a step to the side as he eyes my wrist waiting for him on the table.

He raises the axe.

He’s going to do it. He’s really going to do it.

_oh God no please no please stop him don’t make me have to-_

The axe drops.

And I scream soundlessly through the jagged edges of my scrambled thoughts and someone shouts _“Expelliarmus!”_ and there’s a yell and a thud and the clang of metal against stone.

Silence.

My hand. My hand. I can still feel my fingers. I can feel myself shaking.

 _His_ hand is still on my back.

“What did you do that for?” Malfoy is scrambling to his feet. He shakes out his robe and stares sullenly at us.

His father glances down at me, at my hand, at his wand. There’s the faintest frown on his face. Malfoy can’t see it from where he’s standing, but I can.

“Well done, Draco,” he says at last.

“But-”

“Well. You see. It wasn’t necessary for you to actually complete the task. I just wanted to make sure that you would be willing to do so.”

_Does that mean..._

He’s changed his mind. He’s not going to do it.

I take a deep, shuddering breath.

_I’m safe._

Yeah, right.

Malfoy runs a hand through his hair. His mouth twists downwards a fraction but he turns away, and I can’t see his expression. He bends stiffly to retrieve the axe and place it on the desk. It’s so close to my hand I could almost touch it.

“Thank you, Draco, but for the moment I believe Miss Granger’s hand is considerably more useful attached to the rest of her body. You can put the axe away.”

He picks it up and stalks out of my field of vision. I can hear him fumbling with - oh, I don’t know, whatever box they keep the thing in, I suppose. I can’t see anything, I’m shaking and my eyes are blurred with tears that I can’t keep back even though I know I shouldn’t cry-

And then there’s the light touch of Lucius Malfoy’s wand running down my arm, followed by the lighter touch of the spell that melts the charm holding me to the table. I cradle my right wrist against my chest.

“No, Miss Granger.” He’s speaking very quietly, still standing over me. “You will leave that hand where I can see it. And you will stop snivelling this instant, unless you want me to reconsider the matter.”

I wish he’d move away from me.

I wipe my eyes with my robe-sleeve. He tuts disapprovingly. I rest my hand on the desk, beside my head, where I can see it.

His hand is still on my back. I can still feel myself shaking. 

_Now what?_

I don’t know. I don’t want to know.

I can’t make him go away by pretending he’s not there.

But…

I close my eyes.


	12. Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gloves come off. Draco gets to show what he's made of and Hermione finds out that the truth may set her free - one way or the other.

One Dark wizard standing behind me, one Dark-wizard-in-training standing in front of me. 

It suddenly feels very claustrophobic in here.

Malfoy stares at me across the desk, his ferrety white face unreadable. His father takes a step back.  I stand up.

There’s a rustle behind me. I tense.  His wand is out, but he’s not using it. He just walks to the end of the desk and smiles his predatory smile.

“Up on the desk, Miss Granger.”

I turn to sit on it, swing my legs up, twist round onto my knees to face them-

“No, Miss Granger.  On your back.”

I wish I wasn’t trembling so, so... _obviously_ , as I lie down with my head at his end of the desk so he can look down at me and I can’t escape the amusement in those pale and merciless eyes.

He flicks his wand. I jerk away but thin ropes wrap round each wrist and slam me back onto the desk, the ends stretching away over each corner. There’s a little leeway to move my arms, but not much.

All I can hear is the sound of air entering and leaving and entering and leaving my mouth.

_Oh God, please don’t let him do anything too horrible._

Maybe it would be better to pray to die quickly. Painlessly would be too much to hope for.

“You see, Draco - if we’d taken her hand, it would be rather more difficult to do this, would it not?”

“Yes, Father.” He sounds a bit like he did at that Prefects’ meeting when Professor Dumbledore told him off for bullying the first years.

“Yes,” his father repeats. “Now, see to her feet, please.”

Breathe in... out... in... out...

And ropes seize my ankles, taking a fraction of a second to settle before pulling taut. I swallow. My mouth is dry.

“Good,” he says, smiling, smiling down at me. “You’ll forgive the slight discomfort, Miss Granger. This will make things easier for all of us.”

God, I wish I could claw at him, wish I could make that mocking porcelain face _bleed_...

“So, Draco. I believe Miss Granger was casting doubt on your aptitude for Unforgivable Curses. Would you care to show her the truth?”

“Certainly, Father.” The little git is smirking too, I can hear it in his voice. “Which one do you want me to demonstrate?”

“I think Cruciatus, given that you’ve already been discussing it.”

_Oh, of course. It would be, wouldn’t it?_

Draco raises his wand, slowly, too slowly. He’s frowning, eyes narrowed - showing more signs of concentration than hate, but still, he must really hate me, to do this.

_“Crucio.”_

And blades of flame carve into my flesh and I scream I _scream_ but I can’t and there’s burning acid running in my veins and my hands are on fire and my arms are on fire and legs, and my feet... _thud thud - thud thud thud thud - thud_ and it’s my feet juddering against the desk and-

“Stop.”

It does.

I cough soundlessly, sucking in air. Every breath feels like a blade slashing down into my lungs...

All I can see is _his_ face, leaning over me, not smiling now as he lays his wand across my throat.

_“Finite.”_

And now my coughing is too-loud in the room. I close my mouth, try to contain the convulsions.

He lifts his wand from my throat.

“Would you bring me some water, Draco?”

Silence, then the sound of footsteps going away, water gushing from a tap, footsteps approaching, and then I can see both of them, looking down at me. Malfoy has a goblet in his hand.

His father pushes one hand under my neck and I jerk away and he grasps the back of my head and lifts it slightly. I gulp in a breath. And then I relax, letting the full weight of my head rest in his hand. There’s nothing I can do to fight him, anyway.

He smiles, and beckons to Malfoy with a crooked finger.

Malfoy hands him the goblet.

He tilts my head further. He lowers the goblet so the metal is cold against my lips.

“Now drink, Miss Granger. We need you to be able to speak to us.”

And he tips up the goblet and the water pours into my mouth and over my chin and down my neck and I splutter and swallow but there’s too much of it-

He hands the empty goblet back to his son, pulls out a dark handkerchief and carefully wipes my neck and my shoulders and my face. The cloth is warm against my skin.

“Better?” he asks, smoothing my hair away from my forehead.

“I-” I can speak without setting off the coughing, that’s one thing.

“Yes?” He raises an eyebrow. I want to tear my eyes away from that... _God_... penetrating impenetrable gaze, but I can’t move my head while he’s holding me like this.

“Y-yes. Thank you.”

“Good.” He lowers my head to the desk, removes his hand. The wood feels uncomfortably hard.

“So now,” he says, “you’ll be able to tell Draco what you really think about his command of the Cruciatus Curse.”

What?

Those thin lips curve into an even crueller smile.

“Oh yes. Because if you were right earlier, and his technique _could_ use improvement, you’d be just the person to help him out, wouldn’t you? I’ve heard all about how much you like to correct other students, how you like to show off the pitiful scraps of information you’ve managed to assemble.”

He’s... how can he even twist my willingness to help out in class? Can’t he even respect an honest desire to help someone else understand how to solve a problem? Or is it just that he can’t stand the thought of a mere Mudblood knowing more than people like Crabbe and Goyle, prime examples of pureblood intelligence that they are?

“Would you find it easier with Veritaserum?” he says quietly. “Because we could do it that way, if you’d prefer. But I’m afraid I would have to regard that as a breach of our agreement.”

 _I am_ not _going to give you the excuse to touch Mum and Dad..._

But my mouth is dry again. I swallow. I shake my head.

“I...” I don’t know what to say. How _can_ I answer a question like that?

He smiles. He reaches out as if he’s going to touch my hair again... but he pulls back.

“Perhaps a simpler question would be better suited to you,” he says. “Hmm… tell me: how would you rate Draco’s... application of Cruciatus, on a scale of one to seventeen?”

Rate Cruciatus on a scale? He’s insane. How did _he_ rate it, when it was him screaming on the floor?

But I’m not stupid enough to bring that up again.

“Perhaps it would help,” he goes on, “if you also thought about where on that scale you would place the Cruciatus as performed by myself?”

I don’t even want to think about that.

But his eyes are boring into mine and suddenly the silence is suffocating. Malfoy might as well not even be here, for all the attention he’s giving him.

“That...” I whisper. I blink back tears, I don’t know why they’re coming now. “You can’t apply a scale to _that_.”

He smiles. “You flatter me, Miss Granger.”

_You smug, twisted..._

“So. I take it that does mean you can apply the scale to my son’s efforts.”

“Four!” I cry out.

 _Four? Why the hell did you say_ four _, for God’s sake?_

I had to say something! The bloody _question_ is meaningless!

But... I’ve just handed him the excuse... _Oh God._

“Oh dear,” he says, turning to Malfoy, who’s looking at me with new loathing. I close my eyes. I know what’s coming. I could put the words straight into his mouth. And it wouldn’t have made the slightest bit of difference if I’d said forty.

“It looks as though you’ll have to try that again, Draco. And there’s no need to hold back this time. After her earlier reprieve, I think Miss Granger will now agree that there are worse things to fear than Unforgivable Curses.”

_And I suppose you want me to thank you for that?_

I open my eyes. But he’s not looking at me, he’s looking at his son. Well, why would he care about my reaction, if this is just about showing that slimy little git how to be as much of a bastard as he is? I should have guessed what he was up to.

_Except that I’ve already decided that trying to guess is point-_

_“Crucio!”_

And I scream as a jagged knife scores down my throat and my stomach  
no mark, of course there’s no mark but  
only burning, burning deep in my bones-

_“No! Stop it, please stop...”_

“Shut up!”

 _He said... oh God, oh God..._  
I bite down on my lip. The room, the room, I’m   
in a room with grey stone walls _not_ searing white fire-

It’s not real, it’s just a spell

 _What’s not real? the tall demon dancing above you_  
_or the one clawing its way out of your belly-_

Him, him, it’s not him dancing its my head jerking from side to side

Black hands slide onto my cheeks, clamping head in place _sending molten lava running down my neck_

_“No, oh God, PLEASE...”_

Laughter grates my nerves like claws squealing on a thousand blackboards.

“Well, well, well, Miss Granger. Aren’t we being sensitive all of a sudden?”

“You _bastard!_ ”  
and my body jerks in convulsions that should crack my spine-

Thinned lips, _twisting, melting..._ “I can assure you that I am not, and I will _not_ have you cast aspersions-” _squeeze eyes shut against claw slicing through my eyeball_ “-can trace my lineage back for more than twenty generations. I don’t suppose _you_ even know the names of your great-grandparents.”

 _“I don’t care-”_ as sharp-edged wire wraps round my ankles, round my legs, my waist, chest and _cuts_ in- “I mean, please, stop it _. Please._ ”

His fingers tightening on my face, harsh and hot enough to scorch my flesh  
searing through to the _bone_ -

“Oh, but Miss Granger… Do you really think it’s fair to ask Draco to stop while you still owe him a coherent review of his technique?”

Draco? technique? oh, his stupid scale... _God, I hate him! but I can’t hate him-_

_lash of a steel-tipped whip biting into my arm-_

“It... it... _God,_ I don’t know, seventeen, twenty, seventy... enough, please, it’s bad _enough!_ Stop it, for God’s sake _stop-_ ” __

Hot tears rolling down my face like acid...

“Ah, but it’s not me you should be asking, is it? I’m not the one holding the wand.”

So he wants me to grovel to the ferret?

_a thousand banshees screaming screaming screaming-_

Lift head, stare at  
Malfoy, white-faced, frowning with concentration  
and I never thought I’d ever beg him for anything but right now I just want it to stop-

“Malfoy, _oh God-_ ” _whip slices into my belly, across my legs and feet_ “please, stop it for God’s sake no more no more nomore... _please..._ ”

not a voice, a strangled moan as  
_nothing_ crushes the end of my fingers and slowly,  
slowly _nonono_ travels up towards my hand  
_but nothing’s there it’s just the spell it’s all in your mind_  
and what fucking difference does that make when  
every bone in my hands is being pulverised-

because Malfoy just sneers, but glances at _him_ and says “Do you want me to?” in a strained voice and I don’t know whether the strain is from effort or fear or just my hearing drowned in screams real and imagined and his father says “well draco do you think she’s asking out of fear or respect?” and it’s such a stupid question because it’s not either it’s the pain pain pain and _i can’t take it_ and he says “do you think you’ve taught her to respect you” and i scream out _“YES”_ because _no one can take this_ and malfoy laughs and says i’m lying and oh god i want to die and his father raises an eyebrow and it’s a snake about to strike and his smile is like a guillotine blade falling as he shakes his head and says, “I’m sorry, Miss Granger. I’m afraid it’s not up to me.”

a hot wire encircles my neck and cuts into my throat like butter and any reply drowns in frothing blood-

_let me die let me die_

spears skewer me from the soles of my feet-

i passed out before _stop stop_  
need to get to that cool darkness, there, _there_  
fighting though wall of devils snare crushing chest  
dragging me back to life to pain to light  
scorching solar flares that turn my flesh black, charred, crumbling  
but i know to relax so i can fall through to the dark peace beyond.

. . .

Wet.

Something warm and wet on my cheek.

Like Grandpa’s dog licking my face.

dog...

“Sirius...?”

Wet tongue on my other cheek.

_I want to go home._

An arrow of pure pain pierces my heart. _Home._ I let out a half-sob.

“Hush.”

I open my eyes. Lucius Malfoy’s pale grey ones look back at me.

“I would appreciate it if you did not confuse me with that reckless blood-traitor,” he says. “That is the third time you have insulted me today. Do so again, and you will overstep the bounds of my patience.”

He brushes my hair back and wipes my forehead with his wet handkerchief. I can smell the damp leather of his gloves, mixed with that strange sweet scent of poison roses. Silent tears roll down my cheeks. He wipes them away.

And suddenly I know that I _don’t_ want him touching me like this and I jerk to one side but I’m still bound by his bloody ropes and it _hurts_ where they rub on the raw flesh at my wrists and ankles.

“Think you’re going somewhere, Granger?”

I ignore the bloody juvenile bastard-in-training and look back at... at the elder bastard who almost seems like more of a bastard because he’s not quite acting like one right at this moment.

Those fathomless silver eyes make me shiver. They always do.

“Let me go,” I say. “Please.”

He looks at me for a moment, expressionless. Then he looks up.

“Well, you do appear to have made some progress, Draco,” he says, “but there’s still plenty of room for improvement. Our Miss Granger was rather too... coherent for most of that session. Remember that the purpose of Cruciatus is Pain, pure and simple. If you wish the subject to retain the ability to, shall we say, engage in discussion about a topic of mutual interest, there are other spells that are far more suitable.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Don’t look at me like that. You _need_ to learn this properly - you do understand that?”

“Yes, Father. I’ve been doing all the exercises you showed me.”

“Yes. And your technique has certainly improved over the last few months. It’s far better to be making that mistake at this stage than to be sending your subject into painless unconsciousness within the first few seconds, as do so many beginners. You just need to work towards maximum intensity. We’ll talk about how once we get back to the house.”

He reaches into his robe and hands something to Malfoy. “Now,” he says, “the Portkey in this box will take you back to my study. Wait there for me, and we’ll discuss tomorrow’s lesson. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

_Tomorrow’s lesson?_

Malfoy scowls, looking down at me. “But Father, you promised-”

“I said, _go_.”

Malfoy’s scowl deepens, but he reaches into the box and is suddenly gone.

It seems oddly quiet without him. Not so much in terms of noise - one less person breathing hardly makes much difference - but, well, at least I know what I’m dealing with when it comes to his father. Sort of.

Though right at the moment I wish he’d just go away and _leave me alone_ , even if he left me tied to this sodding table all night. What’s he going to do in this ‘few minutes’?

_You’ll find out._

I’d rather not, thanks.

He’s standing behind my head, staring into my eyes with that strange look he has sometimes, as if he’s trying to slither down into my soul. It’s... I don’t know. I can’t look away. I wish he would.

I wish he would _go_.

He pulls out his wand.

Oh _God..._

“Your fear,” he murmurs, “is almost as exquisite as your pain.”

I close my eyes. I wish Malfoy was still here. Being stuck with his father in this sort of mood...

I hear him move round to the left side of the table. I jump as he tugs lightly at my sleeve. I open my eyes and watch as he walks to my feet, where he pulls down the hem of my robe, straightening out the folds where my thrashing about made it ride up my legs. Then he’s standing beside my right hand.

He trails one gloved finger across my wrist, just beside the rope. I wince - it’s really sore just there. He slides his thumb and forefinger around my wrist, holding it firmly as I stare at the ceiling, lip trembling and my left hand clenched against the pain.

I hear him shifting his feet and then his face is above me again.

“You do realise,” he says quietly, “that this hand belongs to me?”

I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.

“Yes, little one,” he says, “your choice of punishment earlier still stands. Just because I’d rather leave your hand attached to your arm for now, doesn’t mean it isn’t forfeit. Mine, to do as I like with.”

That’s... warped. And ridiculous, seeing as how he was going to let Macnair kill me anyway.

Or is that what he’s getting at?

I hold his gaze, narrowing my eyes.

I take a deep breath.

“You do not own me, Lucius Malfoy.”

His eyes widen. I can feel my heart thumping in the silence. I can’t hear anything at all.

_Names have power._

Then his mouth twists into a sneer.

“Brave words, little Mudblood,” he says softly. “But, when it comes down to it, they are only words, aren’t they? _I_ decide when it’s time for you to die, and meanwhile _you_ obey all my commands with a most gratifying alacrity. You see: you are learning your place, even if you can’t yet bring yourself to admit it.”

_No. No way._

It’s hard to breathe. I try to keep my voice steady. “You have no right...”

“Oh, you were meaning _legally_?” He laughs. “Well, in that case, feel free to go file a complaint at the Ministry.”

_Bastard._

“Not moving, Mudblood? Well then, it rather looks as though you share my opinion on the relevance of current Ministry legislation to your situation, doesn’t it?”

I turn my head away. From the corner of my eye I see him reach out towards me - but then he jerks his hand back, lifts his wand and gives it a sharp flick. The ropes binding me fall to the floor.

“Get up.”

I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the desk. I... I feel numb, as if I’m in some horrible dream. It’s true, I am doing what he tells me to do - but that’s only because he has all the power, _not_ because I agree he has the right to it.

I resist the urge to hide my right hand in my lap. He wouldn’t like it.

“You are pathetic,” he hisses.

I stand up. So I have to put up with a few minutes of insults, but hopefully after that he’ll go back to Malfoy and leave me alone.

“Pathetic,” he repeats. “Weak, ignorant, ugly, dirty... You are inferior to me in every way.” 

God, it’s easy to see where the ferret gets it from.

He seizes my chin and forces me to look at him. “Talk to me, Mudblood… Tell me about your place in the world. Tell me what you’ve learned here.”

And I know what I have to say. He’ll probably kill me, but he’s going to do that anyway. And someone needs to say it to him. Maybe my being here can have some purpose after all.

_Please God, help me now. Help me be worthy of Gryffindor..._

I look him straight in the eye. “All I- all I’ve learned is that you seem to need to prove you’re better than me. But you don’t really believe that yourself, do you? If you did, you wouldn’t even care what I think.”

He freezes as the words sink in. Then two red blotches appear high on his cheekbones. And then he hits me hard across the face.

“How _dare_ you!”

I stagger backwards, holding my hand to my cheek. I can taste blood.

He’s never hit me before, not with his hands, he’s always used a wand or a knife. There’s a bead of spit on his lower lip and his nostrils are flaring wider than I’ve ever seen them before.

I back away across the room. But there’s nowhere to go. In two strides he’s caught me by the throat and hurled me against the wall.

“That’s it, Mudblood,” he snarls. “I’ve had enough of you! Give thanks to your useless God that I don’t have time to kill you slowly.”

And... and... I don’t hate him.

Fear, yes - I don’t want to die and I can’t stand the thought of any more pain - but it’s so obvious now that he and the ferret are just two more bullies in a long line of bullies who’ve been indoctrinated with such an inflated idea of their own importance that they can’t live with themselves unless they enlist the whole bloody world to support them in that belief. And it’s horrible and evil and I wish to God I’d never got in the way of it but I can see so clearly now how hating it only feeds it and I just don’t want to be part of that any more.

How ridiculously easy it is, after everything that’s happened, to let all the hate fall away! It’s a freedom so beautiful, I almost smile.

_I’ve won, Lucius Malfoy. You can’t use me any more. So kill me now and have done with it._

Something flickers in his eyes as he shifts his grip on my throat. I- I don’t want his face to be the last thing I see before I die, but I won’t look away. Let him see, and remember, and please God let there be something that comes out of this nightmare that helps the Order get rid of him and Voldemort once and for all.

He presses down on my throat, the edge of his hand hard against my windpipe. I hold my breath.

_Mum, Dad, I’m so sorry I couldn’t say good-bye. I’m sorry I didn’t manage to get myself out of here... I’d come home if I could, if only I could..._

And I can’t hold my breath any longer so I open my mouth to gulp in more air - but I can’t.

I can’t breathe!

The panic floods through me and _I have to breathe_ and I push against his arm and try to prise his hand away from my throat and _I can’t breathe_ and I’m going to die but I can’t budge his arm and _I can’t breathe_ and he just looks at me with those cold dead eyes and I’m going to die and it’s so bloody unheroic to be struggling like this but - _Air._

Air. _Oh, thank God._

His hand is still on my throat, but he’s eased the pressure so I can suck in a breath and it’s never been so sweet. I’m still pushing on his arm - I need to keep it away so he doesn’t press in again to stop me breathing...

“Well, well, Mudblood. It seems that you’re not so ready to die after all. Such a pity you don’t get a say in the matter.”

No... no, he _can’t_.

“Let go of my arm,” he says.

What, so he can suffocate me?

“I said, let go of my arm.” He increases the pressure. I can’t stop him.

I drop my hands to my side. I don’t have a choice.

One second… two seconds… and then he lets me breathe again.

And he’s standing there with his hand on my throat and I’m not even trying to defend myself and there’s nothing I can do except watch him play God.

He could have killed me at almost any time since he brought me here, I know that. But this... not an exotic and powerful spell, but such a simple matter of whether his hand is _here_ or _there..._ it feels more real, somehow. My life is literally in his hands.

His gaze is probing mine, but I... I can hardly bear to look at him. Would it really make any difference? Do I really want to see the look on his face when he decides it’s time for me to die?

I don’t want to die. Who the hell did I think I was kidding with all that noble-in-defeat stuff? _I don’t want to die._

But the alternative... oh God. At least if he kills me he can’t use me - for making potions, training the ferret or whatever other vile scheme he might come up with.

He takes his hand away from my throat. I take a deep breath, trying to blink back the tears pricking in my eyes.

_I shouldn’t care. I can’t afford to care._

Slowly, he peels off his right glove.

And now I understand. It’s appropriate, in a way, that he should kill me with his bare hands. Appropriate that he should have the honesty to finally touch me at the moment he exercises the ultimate power he thinks he has the right to wield. Appropriate - and unexpected. I suppose I could see it as a mark of respect. I should be honoured.

But I don’t want to die.

He doesn’t remove his left glove. He just curls those fingers round my chin, tilting it up so I can’t look away from him, from the way his deep cold grey eyes are searching mine.

I could drown in those eyes.

Drowning is one of the more pleasant ways to die, I’ve read.

And he wants to watch, to know the precise moment of my death. The moment he kills me. I don’t think I want to... share that with him.  But he’ll take it regardless, like he’s taken everything else he wanted.

And now he’s lifting his right hand towards my face, and I do my best not to blink because even if I know now that I’m really too much of a coward to be Gryffindor, I will at least try to meet death with some dignity.

But he doesn’t put his hand on my throat.  He just touches a long white finger to my temple and draws it slowly down over my cheek, tracing the scar he made when he forced me to take his Veritaserum. His touch is unexpectedly warm...

But it summons a shiver from the very depths of my soul.

And he trails that warm finger behind my jawbone, onto my neck, resting lightly on the pulse-point there so that I can feel my life-blood beating between us.

To my utter horror, I find myself blushing.

His lips twitch. He lifts his finger away, staring at it for a moment as if he’s surprised it hasn’t rotted away just from touching my skin.

_Just do it! There’s nothing more for you here! You can’t use me any more!_

But he releases my chin and takes a step back, looking at me with slightly narrowed eyes and I... I can’t look away.

“Well, well, well, _Hermione_ ,” he says, smiling darkly. “What an endlessly entertaining creature you are.”


	13. Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are better left in the dark.

I’ve got used to finding things in the dark.

The soap. A towel. The toothbrush. My robe. The doorknob.

I open the bathroom door, and walk out into the cooler room beyond. I turn around and push the door closed. A hand comes down on mine.

I freeze.

It’s still there. I’m not just imagining it.

All I can hear is my breathing. Too loud, too fast.

I try to jerk my hand away, but that other hand slides up to grasp my wrist.

It’s him. It has to be him.

_But why is it still dark?_

He’s always cast _Lumos_ before, always. It’s the first thing he does. Always.

And he’s always worn gloves before, too. These fingers are bare against my skin.

_Oh God._

It... it could just be the ferret.

I’m not sure whether that would be better or worse.

But anyhow, it’s not. This hand is too large.

He moves behind me. A second hand touches the small of my back, pushing me forwards. My left hand, my free hand, is pressing against the bathroom door.

_What’s he doing?_

His left hand, the hand on my back, trails over my left shoulder, following my arm down, past my elbow, brushing along my forearm ... and strong fingers curl firmly around my wrist.

Strong _gloved_ fingers.

I’m trapped.

I’ve always been trapped...

He raises my left hand above my head, pinning it against the wooden panelling of the door. But he loosens his grip on my right wrist, sliding his hand down and pushing his fingers between mine so that he can prise them from the doorknob.

I... I...

I wish he’d _stop_.

But he just turns my hand over in his, with his thumb pressed into my palm, then strokes along each of my fingers in turn.

I’m shaking. I’m not sure whether it’s from anger or fear or... but whatever it is, I know exactly why the bastard is exploring my hand so... so thoroughly. He couldn’t proclaim his ownership more clearly if he shouted _Mine!_ from the roof of his bloody manor house.

_But you don’t own me. Not any part of me._

I hold my breath. I can hear him breathing now, soft and steady in the darkness.

He raises my right hand, pushes it against my left, traps them together with his gloved left hand. He holds me in place as we stand there, silently.

This... isn’t good. It really isn’t good.

I can feel something touching my hair. I close my eyes. I open them again. It’s equally dark either way - I can’t shut this out.

“Now, little one,” he murmurs, “where were we?”

_Get away from me!_

He’s so close I can feel his breath against my cheek. It smells faintly of alcohol.

“Here, I think.” And two fingers touch the left side of my neck, right over the pulse-point where they came to rest before.

And that means that he’s reaching round in front of me and I shrink back but then his chest is warm against my back and he’s too close, too close and, and... _I can’t stand it!_

I jerk my head away from his fingers and throw myself to the left to get away but he’s gripping my hands too strongly and it’s useless, there’s nothing I can do, and I knew there was nothing I could do but at least I tried...

I shift my feet slightly to regain my balance. He says nothing. He doesn’t need to say anything. All he needs to do is stand there, too close, while I stand in front of him with my head bowed because if I held it upright it would be that much closer to his face.

Even like this, it’s too close. Even the smell of his robes, of, of... _him_ seems sharper, stronger than usual.

And he places his hand against my left cheek and slowly slides it down, feeling for that place just under my jawbone where he can press in and feel my heart beating out the rhythm of my fear.

_Don’t, don’t, don’t..._

“Now,” he says, in a low quiet voice that makes me shudder, “you didn’t _really_ want to go anywhere, did you?”

He draws his finger down my neck.

I know what he’s going to do. I’m not stupid. It’s... it’s... I’ve been trying not to think about it, ever since that first day when he smiled that horrible twisted smile and told me to- to take off my robe, ever since that look in his eyes when he stuck me to the wall and first made me scream...

And the worst of it is, if he’d done this back then I’d have felt sick just from the thought of him touching me, but now it feels almost... inevitable. He’s smashed through so many of my boundaries with the unthinkable agony of Cruciatus, the mind-rape of Veritaserum, the vicious way he cut into my arm, that _this_ boundary seems trivial by comparison.

But it isn’t.

It feels like I’m just watching, as he guides that finger across my collarbone and down the front of my robe. It feels as if there’s some kind of glass wall between my body and my awareness of it. But that doesn’t stop me shivering when he brushes between my breasts, and slides his hand to the left and curves his fingers round underneath...

_God._

I hear him exhale.

This isn’t happening.

It is happening.

_Tell him to stop._

I- I _can’t_.

You’re not meant to fight when there’s no hope of getting away, that’s what everyone says. Just let them get on with it so you’ve a chance of walking away afterwards. I never really took much notice - after all, I had my magic to protect me, didn’t I?

Stupid, stupid me.

I’m looking straight at where his hand is, but I can’t see a thing, of course. It’s as if the darkness itself has formed into the shape of those fingers, to reach out and hold me here...

_No, no, that’s ludicrous. It’s him. A person, a human being._

Well, that last one might be pushing it a bit.

But I can imagine what his hand looks like, icy-pale against the black robe he gave me. It _feels_ quite different from that, somehow. It’s warm, for a start - why does that always surprise me? I... I wish to God it wasn’t there, but from a purely objective physical point of view, it’s not actually uncomfortable.

It’s what he’s capable of that makes me uncomfortable.

I can’t believe he’s doing this. This is _Lucius Malfoy_. I thought he hated me so much he couldn’t even bring himself to touch me!

_But he did touch you. He touched your cheek._

Not like this. Not with his fingers tracing those small circles...

It... tickles. But I hold myself motionless, desperately clinging to the hope that if I don’t respond he’ll lose interest and go away.

But then he cups his hand under my breast, and lifts it slightly, and slowly brings his thumb and forefinger together to – _oh God, no_ – to catch my nipple, and there’s a brief jolt that’s so slight it’s hardly even pain at all...

This time it doesn’t tickle. It feels... weird. I’ve never been so aware of anything as I’m aware of that… pressure… but somehow it’s not on the surface that I feel it. It’s as if he’s holding something with roots deep inside me and there isn’t any separation between us at all.

_I wish he’d let go. I wish he’d LET GO._

I take a breath. I can feel myself trembling.

_Tell him to stop!_

What good will that do? He’ll do whatever he likes anyway.

He moves his fingers, twisting gently but even ‘gently’ magnifies that connection a hundred times over and I bite the inside of my cheek to try to focus somewhere else because I don’t know what he’s doing and it’s scaring me.

It’s not... nice. It’s nothing like anything Lavender and Parvati spend their lives giggling about. I wish he’d stop it but if I say so he’ll know he’s won, and what will he do then?

Viktor tried to touch me… there, once. We never talked about it afterwards, and I try not to think about it, but I can’t help remembering now. It was utterly, utterly different. Well, of course it was, because Viktor liked me and I liked him even if he did make me a bit uncomfortable sometimes. But he was so _nice_ about it, nervous almost, and the whole thing was just... embarrassing, really. And... and Lucius Malfoy just puts his hands anywhere he likes after proving again and again that all he wants is to watch me suffer, and...

It’s not fair.

And then he briefly clamps his thumb and finger hard together and I yelp and twist round to glare at him because there was nothing ambiguous at all about that burst of agony.

Stupid, to react like that. Yes, of course it hurt, but it was such an insignificant pain compared to the Cruciatus...

But so much more _personal._

“Well, well, well,” he drawls. Even the sound of his voice makes me flinch. “So that’s what I have to do to get a reaction out of you, is it?”

I don’t reply. Anything I could say would only make him worse. I can’t bear it.

He lets go of my breast and twists his hand in my hair, jerking my head to the right. I blink back tears.

“So, Hermione,” he says quietly, right into my ear. “Are we to conclude that you do have an appetite for pain after all?”

That’s just... sick.

“No.”

“Ah.” He turns his hand so that the tug on my hair is even more painful. “In that case, little one, perhaps you should learn to respond to what you do like.”

As if I’d _like_ him to touch me in any way whatsoever! Arrogant piece of slime.

He releases my hair and a moment later I feel his hand on my right breast. I almost pull away as his thumb brushes across my nipple, but he’s standing so close I’d only back right into him if I did.

“You need to learn to relax,” he tells me. “It’s really very rude to ignore someone who’s going to so much effort for you.”

A flick at my nipple, a fleeting shiver. I suck in my breath.

“That’s better,” he says. “You know that I like to see you show your gratitude... and you do want to please me, don’t you? Because we’ve already agreed on what will happen if you don’t.”

Bastard! How can he bring that threat to my parents into _this_?

But that thought leads straight back to the spiral of hate, and I can look at it another way and see how completely bloody ridiculous this situation is: that he, Lucius Malfoy, the epitome of pure-blood pride, is standing in the dark forcing himself on me, a teenage Mudblood. It seems... beneath him, somehow. Beneath what he’d like to think he is. Beneath the image I’d expect him to present to me.

_Ridiculous... Of course!_

If he really wants to see me react, why doesn’t he turn on the light?

Because he can’t. Because this isn’t Lucius Malfoy at all.

And suddenly the pressure of darkness feels somehow lighter, though I’m not sure I’ll be able to laugh at it. I never was much good at Boggarts, and even if it’s not real, well, not really _him_ , it still has me trapped. How can I get it to let go?

How can I make Lucius Malfoy less scary?

I don’t think Neville’s method would work. Lucius Malfoy would be terrifying no matter what he was wearing.

The Boggart-hand closes around my breast, so imperiously that for a moment I forget it’s not real. And then its thumb is stroking over my nipple and... _God_... No, it’s not pleasant but it certainly refuses to be ignored. And yes, knowing that it’s not real lessens that unholy feeling of connection, but it can’t banish it altogether.

How on earth can I feel connected to a Boggart?

A tendril of doubt creeps into my mind.

But isn’t it precisely those doubts and fears that Boggarts prey upon? And they’re _my_ doubts and fears, after all - of course I’m connected to the thing!

“I thought I told you to relax.” It squeezes its fingers together, a little too tightly. I can’t help squirming, but there’s nothing I can do to relieve the pressure. I shift my weight from one foot to the other.

“Now, now,” it says. “If you really don’t like pain, you’ll have to learn to do as I say, won’t you?”

Suddenly I remember Dobby, and the horrible things he had to do to himself when he did something the Malfoys wouldn’t like. And then I grin as I think of a Lucius Malfoy-Boggart shrinking to half my height, of its voice rising from a menacing murmur to a high squeak, of its full velvet robes fading to a dirty threadbare pillowcase, of that thin pointed face growing large pointed ears, and all that oh-so-perfect hair falling out all over the floor...

Maybe I can do it - I got that wandless _Lumos_ spell to work before, just about. And perhaps having the thing touch me will provide enough focus for the spell.

I turn my head towards where the voice came from.

“Why on earth should I listen to you? You’re nothing but a Boggart!” And I laugh, loudly, and maybe my laughter has a slightly hysterical edge but _of course_ it’s funny to think of Lucius Malfoy turning into a house-elf, even if it is a grave insult to the elves, and Professor Lupin never said anything about feelings of poetic justice and revenge interfering with the spell. So I focus as best I can and shout out, _“Riddikulus!”_

There’s no crack _._ Just a resounding silence.

The hand disappears from my breast... but my hands are still trapped in the thing’s grasp. I try to pull away, but I can’t.

Damn. Boggarts never were my strong point. What am I going to do now?

Then it laughs, and the sound echoes round the room as if the darkness itself is laughing at me.

“So.” The voice is rich with dark amusement. “This is what you dream about, in the darkest corner of your soul? I’m flattered, Hermione, truly I am.”

In spite of myself, I shudder. That... I can’t imagine a Boggart saying something like that.

“But if _this_ is your worst nightmare,” the voice continues quietly, “I would have to conclude that you lack imagination.” The hand is back, nestling between my breasts. “Or maybe just...” and as his voice drops to a whisper his hand starts to move _down_ , “...experience.”

_Oh God._

It’s not real, it’s not real. This can’t be happening. Why would he do this?

No. It has to be a Boggart. It’s just doing what it knows will frighten me most. It’s just playing on my fears.

His finger circles my navel. I can feel the sharp edge of his fingernail, even through my robe.

But... my fears were never this... detailed. It’s not like I was ever imagining Lucius Malfoy holding me against the bathroom door, tracing intricate patterns across my belly with those long fingers of his...

This is _not_ coming from me.

I lean forward and rest my forehead against the door. His hand stops, resting warm where the line of my underwear would be if the bastard had bothered to give me any.

It’s horrible, being this... close.

But the worst thing is that it doesn’t feel as awful as it _should_. Because I hate it, I _hate_ it.

“But I’m a _Mudblood!_ ” I cry out. “You hate me! You can’t even stand touching me!”

His hand jerks away from my body as if it’s been stung. His other hand clenches my wrists, hard, making me gasp in pain.

“I have no desire whatsoever to touch you,” he says coldly. “But this isn’t about me. This is - entirely - about you.”

And his hand is back, even lower than it was before and… and… and he _can’t_ touch me _there..._

I jerk back but he brings up his knee to push me forwards, holding me in place against his hand. There’s a soft chuckle from the darkness.

“Do you want me to continue, little one?”

_No! No no no no NO!_

I thought he said he didn’t want to touch me. God knows what’s going on in his evil, twisted mind. He won’t even put on the light and _look_ at me!

I can feel my cheeks burning. It’s too horrible. I can almost _feel_ him standing there behind me and I _can’t stand_ it...

Damn him! If he’s going to do this he can sodding well face up to what he’s doing!

I twist round to face him and this time I don’t have to envisage the movement I would have made with my wand because I can feel the power move within me as I shout, _“LUMOS!”_

And there’s a blaze of pure white light and he drops my hands and jumps back and I turn and I can see him covering his eyes and I can see the whole room as the anger surges through me and I point at him and there’s a screaming in my head _no don’t look away, look at me, you bastard, if you can touch me you can bloody well look at me!_ And I can see that he knows and I don’t need to say it aloud because the light is all there is and it’s burning, burning, burning away the dark and he has to see that I’m not weak and I’m not stupid and I’m not powerless and I _am_ Muggleborn and I’m the same age as his bloody son and there’s no way on earth he should be coming anywhere near me. And he’s staring at me with a look of utter revulsion and the light is flowing _through_ me and I scream and the sound is like fire and I want to burn him with it and I don’t care whether I’m burning him or just burning up like a star about to explode-

He grabs me and pushes my face against the door with one hand on my back and the other pressing down on my head and his voice cuts straight to the heart of the fire. 

_“Nox.”_

And the dark rushes over me like a cold stream, washing away the burning and the fury and the light, and then I’m carried away in the flood and I can hardly breathe and I’m drowning and all I’m aware of is his hands, solid against my back and my head and I wish he’d take them away but if he did I’d be lost forever...

“You will not do that again,” he says.

And then he does step away, and my hands scrabble at the door as I try not to sway. I blink. I can’t see anything. _I can’t see!_

_Of course you can’t see. You never can see anything down here without a light._

But this feels... different. As if I’ll never see anything again.

I cling to the ridge between the door panels. Something solid.

He runs a finger lightly down my spine. I shudder.

“Oh, you needn’t worry,” he sneers. “Do you really think I’d _want_ to touch an ugly little creature like you?”

The words hit me like a lash. How can he say that, after...

He laughs, quietly. “Sweet dreams, Mudblood.”

And there’s a _crack_ , and he’s gone.

I grab for the doorknob. It doesn’t move.

_The bastard! He locked the door!_

I wrench at the door. All I want is a bath, a hot bath where I can scrub away the memory of his hands on my wrists and my neck and my body...

And he’s even denying me that. I can still _smell_ him. It’s horrible.

I walk over to the bed. I sit on it, pulling a blanket around me.

Why? Why did he do that? _Why?_

What did I do? When he first brought me here, when he made me sick with the Probitaserum, he freaked out when I touched him. But yesterday… yesterday he was going to kill me, and then he just _looked_ at me…

What did he see?

I should have spat in his face, instead of standing there like a hypnotised rabbit.

 _No. It’s not my fault. It’s_ not _my fault._

But there must have been something… What did I do to make him…

I raise my hand and dig my nails into my cheek. _Stupid, stupid, stupid me._

And I rake my nails down my neck because I’d rather feel that pain than the cold tight dread in my chest, and because I hate myself for blushing when he touched me yesterday and because I’m stupid, stupid to have told myself that the way he looked at me that first day, that what he made me _do_ ,meant nothing – stupid to have pushed that fear back into the furthest corner of my mind because now- now I don’t know what to think. I’ve no idea what he’s going to do, or – no, I have too many ideas and I’m scared, I’m so scared…

I can’t think about it.

I sit further back on the bed and I pull my knees up to my chest and I wrap my arms around my legs and I dig my nails into my shoulders and I rock back and forth, hot tears soaking into my robe.

And when the tears stop coming I make myself breathe slowly, deeply, calmly.

I don’t know what he’s going to do. But I’ve never known what he’s going to do. And I’m not dead, I don’t know why I’m not dead but there must be a reason I’m still alive and I’ll have to endure whatever he does, just like I’ve had to endure everything he’s done to me so far.

But the way he _touched_ me…

I can still feel his fingers, the patterns they traced over my breasts... I put my own fingers there. It feels different - his hand was larger, of course, and the angle is wrong. And it’s completely different when I have control. I rub my neck and my wrist and all the places where he touched me, fixing the feel of my own hands in my mind to block out the memory of the way his fingers trailed over my body as if he owned me.

But he doesn’t. And he never will. Whatever he does. Whatever he makes me do.

I lie back and stare up into the darkness.

I can’t just go to sleep. What if he comes back?

I wriggle over so my back is up against the wall. That feels a little more secure, but not enough to let me relax enough to close my eyes and not think about him coming back and finding me sleeping...

But I’m tired. There’s still that bone-deep weariness from the Cruciatus, and I _need_ to rest if he’s going to bring Malfoy down here again tomorrow.

That thought should horrify me, but all I want to do at the moment is blot everything out.

I push myself out of bed and stand, and stretch. Then I pull the bedclothes onto the floor. If I get under the bed, at least he’ll have to wake me up before he touches me.

I really don’t like the thought of it. But I examined every inch of this room when I was looking for a way out with his wand, and I know there’s nothing nasty hidden here.

But it _feels_ … I don’t know. Like the mouth of some sort of cave. Where anything could be hiding.

_Get a grip, Hermione! There’s nothing under there!_

I take one breath – in, out – and crawl underneath, pushing the sheets and blankets in front of me.

There… there isn’t anything here. Just stone meeting stone meeting stone at the sharp corner of the room.

I’m never going to get comfortable, but I curl up on a couple of folded blankets and pull the rest around me as best I can.

My dreams, when they come, are deep and dark and not very sweet at all.


	14. Integrity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another lesson for Draco. Sometimes thoughts and deeds don't match.  
> Sometimes they match only too well.

_“Lumos.”_

I shudder. An echo of searing white power flashes down every nerve. But that trace of the spell that almost burned me away drowns in a flood of relief - I can _see._

_Thank God._

Even if all that’s visible are four booted feet, framed by the bed I’m hiding under.

Two of the feet - the smaller ones - move. Not nearly as gracefully as when they were ferret’s paws.

“She’s gone!”

_Oh, I wish._

“Really, Draco? And how do you think that could have happened?”

That voice... I can’t go out there. I can’t. It’s as if every word is dripping down into places that are _private._

I can’t face him.

The ferret’s whine, however, I can deal with.

“So... where is she?”

_Oh honestly, Malfoy. How hard can it be?_

“I would have thought that to be obvious.”

There’s a pause, and then a muttered “Yes Father” and I see him bend down, silhouetted against the light.

I shrink back against the wall. Stupid - there’s still part of me hoping he won’t see me, even though I _know_ there’s no way I can hide from them, even though I know only too well that they can do anything they like to me.

He fumbles in his robes for his wand.

_“Lumos.”_

I flinch, and cover my eyes for a moment. When I lower my hand, he’s staring at me. Then his mouth relaxes into a smirk.

“Granger? What in Hades are you doing under there? Is sleeping _on_ the bed too civilised for you?”

_Oh sod off, Malfoy._

“Less of the pleasantries, Draco, if you please,” his father says. “Just get her out of there so we can get on with it, will you?”

_Get on with what?_

Malfoy’s eyes glitter in the wand-light. “You heard him, Granger. Get out of there.”

I don’t move. I know the blankets and the bed above me and the wall at my back can’t really shelter me from _them_ , but... I can’t go out there. It’s like thinking about crossing that line of powder he made, but it’s not pain I’m afraid of now. It’s... exposure.

He jerks his wand with what I suppose he thinks is a threatening gesture.

“Didn’t you hear me? Get out! Or do you want a repeat of yesterday?”

Yesterday? Does he _know_?

 _He means what_ he _did yesterday._

I shiver. Yes, Malfoy is to be feared when he wields a wand in his father’s dungeon.

But he’ll do that again anyway, won’t he? Once I’m out from under the bed...

_Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t stay here forever. You have to face him._

I inch forward. I stop.

_For God’s sake, Hermione! Just get it over with!_

“Miss Granger.”

Malfoy scowls. His father’s voice slides down into my shadowy corner, a winding snare a hundred times more treacherous now that he’s speaking directly to me.

“Come out,” he says. “Now.”

Just that.

And I do. I’m glad the cracks between the flagstones aren’t straight. It means I can follow their erratic path without thinking about where it leads.

Malfoy moves away as I emerge. He wipes the sulky frown from his face before turning back to face his father.

 _Lucius Malfoy_ , I think, and shiver. I keep my eyes to the floor.

“Stand up, Miss Granger.”

I glance at him, then look away - even the briefest glimpse of that cruel smiling face is enough to make the blood rise to my cheeks. I stand up.

I listen, not watch, as his boots click across the stone.

“Look at me. I thought you wanted to look at me.”

_Don’t. Don’t talk about the light..._

And I meet his gaze, an arm-length away. So cold. So... indifferent. It’s hard to believe that he really... that he was really here, last night. But he was, I’m sure it was him. His face in that harsh white light was too, too real somehow, to have been a Boggart. And he wouldn’t have said that about wanting to look at him if he wasn’t getting back at me.

I glance down at his hands. Both are gloved. When I look up again one of his eyebrows is a fraction higher than it was before.

He takes two steps towards me. Every nerve in my body is screaming at me to move. I don’t.

He’s too close. But he doesn’t touch me.

“The bed,” he says, very quietly, “was provided for your comfort. But it appears that you would rather sleep on the floor, like the uncouth animal that you are. So would you prefer me to remove it?”

I say nothing. What would be the point?

He sighs. “I said, Miss Granger, would you like me to remove the bed?”

I shake my head.

“Answer me properly, girl!”

Properly. He’s so bloody hung up on being _proper_ …

“No,” I say. “No thank you, Mr Malfoy.”

My cheeks are burning. For a moment I’m sure he’s going to reach out to trace the heat with one of those black fingers, and I _don’t_ want him to touch me and I steel myself not to flinch or react in any way at all... but he doesn’t. He just smiles.

“Well, we shall see,” he says. “Perhaps if you perform well today, hmm?”

What the hell does he mean by that?

I glance over at the ferret. He’s watching us with a mask-like expression.

Lucius Malfoy follows my gaze, steps back and gestures to his son.

“Proceed.”

Malfoy smirks.

“And I can do anything, Father?”

The elder Malfoy frowns. “Within reason, Draco. She is a Mudblood, after all.”

Malfoy’s face darkens for a moment, but then he looks at me and laughs. “Oh, I think that leaves plenty of scope - wouldn’t you say, Granger?”

_Given what Lucius Malfoy thinks is ‘within reason’..._

Malfoy tilts his head to one side, eyes slightly narrowed. He’s holding his wand in his right hand, tap tap tapping it absently on his left. Either he’s deciding what to do or he’s trying to work up the will to do it. Not that there’s anything I can do about it, not with his father observing us both like a silent hovering vulture.

“Shame you couldn’t have been this quiet at school,” Malfoy says. “But you’re learning your place now, aren’t you?”

I can’t believe they’re so hung up on that. As if bullying me into submission will restore whatever it is they think we Muggleborns have taken from them.

“Aren’t you?” he says again.

I roll my eyes at him, angling my head so his father can’t see. The edge of Malfoy’s mouth turns down.

“Oh dear,” he says. “Well, if you can’t speak to me, I think you’d better show me.” He grins. “On your knees, Granger.”

_What?_

No way. Not even his father made me do that.

I can see Lucius Malfoy out of the corner of my eye. Does he want to see me do it, or does he expect me to tell Malfoy where he deserves to go?

That particular temptation is easier to resist with his father standing there. He’s just... watching. Intent, but uninvolved.

After everything they’ve done, I would never have thought they could humiliate me further. But just thinking of it makes every pore in my body ooze shame.

“You heard me, Granger.” Malfoy points to the floor. “Kneel!”

Still no expression from his father.

“To you?” I let Bubotuber pus drip from my words.

A smile flickers over his father’s lips.

“Ooooh, aren’t you being quick today?” the younger Malfoy taunts me.

I glare at him.

He sneers. He points his wand at me, traces an almost-familiar pattern-

_“Imperio!”_

And a voice in my head... says to kneel on the floor...

_And it can go straight to hell!_

But my knees start to bend... because I have to kneel _now_  
...because that’s what the voice... says I have to do _now-_

No _way._

I’m resisting it! I’ve never been able to do that before!

And that petulant voice... tells me I should obey... that I belong at his feet on the floor...  
and I look at the stones and the cracks in between-

And I seize on the cracks in his spell. I _will not_ do what he wants me to do! I’ll show him...

_But isn’t that the point? To show him what works? Do you really want to help him learn the Imperius Curse?_

No.

So what am I supposed to do - go along with it?

And the voice murmurs on... though I brush it aside...  
telling me I’m so stupid, for not doing as it says...

And I don’t have to.

But I choose to. And I hope that one day, when it really matters, someone will be able to throw off a Curse that he thought he could do perfectly.

So I make my face go as blank as I can, and I kneel.

I can’t keep from blushing, no matter how much I tell myself that this is an act of resistance.

And he says in my head... that I should look up...

So he can smirk at me. “Yes, Granger. That’s how you show respect for your superiors.”

_You arrogant, slimy little git..._

But it’s easier to keep my expression blank if I just let the words wash over me, if I concentrate only on what the voice in my head is saying. Not that it’s much more pleasant than the voice in his mouth.

His father is standing right behind him, still looking more... curious than anything else. Our eyes meet. He raises an eyebrow. I slide my gaze into the distance.

And the voice in my mind says that I’m not fit to look... that I’m filthy as mud... that I need to go lower...

So I sink down so that I’m bending over my knees and my hands are on the rough flagstones. It’s easier to look at the floor than at them, anyway.

“That’s more like it,” Malfoy sneers. There’s a pause, a swirl of robes. He’s twisting to face his father.

“Impressive,” Lucius Malfoy says. There’s a slight edge to his voice.

“Shall I continue?”

“Yes... Let’s put her to the test, shall we?”

“Well, Granger,” says Malfoy, “now that you’re on the floor, why don’t you show us how well you can crawl?”

...And his words echo round, in the back of my mind...

So I shift my weight onto my hands and prepare to move. Better just not to think about it too much.

“Hmm,” says Lucius Malfoy. “I had something a little more... challenging in mind.”

There’s a pause, then a rustle.

I only just remember to hold my position until Malfoy countermands his order to crawl.

“Er... what do you want me to do with this?” says Malfoy.

“No,” says his father. “It’s what you want _her_ to do with it.”

And I’m told to sit back... and to look up at his face...

Malfoy is looking slightly apprehensive. His father is looking slightly amused.

...and the voice in my head says to hold out my hand...

And Malfoy holds out... a knife. The same knife. The one I Transfigured, that I stabbed his father with. That his father used on me.

_What, is that the only knife they have?_

I take it.

“Say ‘thank-you’, Granger.”

I do, smiling in a way that I hope looks more dreamy than derisive.

He grins back. “You can start with the robe, Granger.”

His father takes a step forward, as if he’s going to say something. But then he stops, and says nothing.

“You wanted me to challenge her,” says Malfoy. “This will, Father - I know her. She may be a Mudblood, but she’s proud, she thinks she’s better than anyone else. She’d _really_ hate to expose herself like this.”

“Indeed,” Lucius Malfoy says.

I feel slightly numb.

...there’s a sneer in my mind... as the voice says to begin...

_So, Malfoy, you really think this is difficult, after what your father did to me?_

Not that it’s... nice.

And it’s not easy, either, turning my wrist so I can cut through the neckline of the robe, sawing at the fibres, trying to appear more careless than cautious even as I’m being careful not to cut my skin. I don’t think about what I’m doing, only how I’m doing it, keeping my eye on the bright metal point parting the fabric, trying to ignore the chill on my skin as it passes my breasts and the robe falls open...

“I think that’s enough of that,” says Lucius Malfoy.

Malfoy scowls in my mind, but tells me to stop.

“Now,” says his father. “I want to see her _use_ the knife.”

_No._

“On what?”

“On herself, of course.”

_No._

_He knows._ I can feel his eyes on me as if they were fingers resting on the back of my neck. He knows I’m pretending and he’s just turned it into another game. I could refuse to play - but what would he do then?

I have the knife. I could try to throw the curse off completely and attack Malfoy - _that_ would stop him using Imperius in the future. But that would be very, very, stupid.

...so I follow the voice, when it tells me to place... the blade on my skin...

Just below my shoulder, almost where his father threatened to stab me in revenge for me stabbing him. Is that co-incidence? It doesn’t feel right, somehow, for Malfoy to be intruding on that battle.

...and he tells me to push... and I want- no I _don’t_

I can’t. Not even a little.

“I expect she’s resisting a little more now, hmm?” Lucius Malfoy says. “So it’s all the more important that you really mean it when you tell her what to do.”

“Of course I mean it,” Malfoy snaps.

“Did I question that?”

Malfoy’s anger rips through my mind.

...you will press in the knife... you will make yourself bleed... you will do as I _say_ , you stupid Mudblood cow!

And, God help me, I... I try to do it. Crazy, I know, as if anything down here is sane, but I’m clinging to the idea that if I can just draw a little blood I’ll get away with it.

But I can’t do it. I press in but when it starts to hurt I can’t bring myself to push it further. Stupid.

Stupid Mudblood...

“That will do, Miss Granger. You can stop now.”

_Thank God._

I lower the knife.

And then I realise my mistake. That wasn’t Malfoy speaking. And Malfoy’s voice is the only thing I’m supposed to be aware of.

I try to disguise my movement, pretend I was just moving the blade to try somewhere else. As if I could ever fool him!

“I said, _stop_ , Miss Granger.”

I freeze, staring down at the knife. No one could ignore an instruction given in that tone.

“How did you do that?” Malfoy voice is sharp.

“Well,” his father drawls, “it seems that our little Mudblood can recognise her true master.”

There’s a moment of furious silence.

“But the spell! I had her under Imperius! How did you break into the spell?”

Lucius Malfoy laughs. “That, Draco, is something you should ask Miss Granger.” He slides his wand under my chin. I don’t move. I feel very cold.

“Look up, little one,” he says quietly.

I do.

“There, you see, Draco? What did young Bartemius Crouch teach you last year about resisting Imperius? Perhaps if you’d paid more attention to Miss Granger’s eyes instead of her undersized breasts, you might have noticed.”

_What? ‘Undersized’ didn’t seem to be a problem for you last night!_

Malfoy glowers at me. “Let me try again, Father.”

His father looks at him for several seconds. “No, Draco, I think that’s enough for one day. You can try again some other time, perhaps.”

“But Father, I can do it! I’ll show her...”

“I think you’ve shown her quite enough.”

Malfoy scowls. His father frowns.

“Don’t question my judgement, Draco. There is no point in rushing ahead before the lesson has properly sunk in. And Miss Granger has taught you a valuable lesson today, although I’m sure she would not care to admit it.”

He smiles down at me. I stare back, stony-eyed.

Malfoy looks at us both. The confusion on his face resolves to suspicion.

“You made her do that on purpose?”

His father smiles, thin-lipped. “Actually, no. I was expecting her to resist, of course, just as she did when I left you both together yesterday. If you want to learn how to exert your authority, there’s little to be gained from working on a docile subject. But the nature of the resistance... that, I admit, I was not expecting.”

He catches my gaze then, and it’s as if he’s dissecting my soul.

“Yes,” he says, and I’m not entirely sure whether he’s talking to Malfoy, or to me, or even to himself, “our Miss Granger is full of surprises. She always presents such... interesting challenges.”

I lower my eyes. I don’t want him to think I’m ‘interesting’. If he found me boring maybe he’d just wipe my memory and let me go.

Yeah, right. He’d just have handed me over to Macnair.

I can’t work him out. He’s just pretty much said that he _wants_ me to fight him, but when I do he treats it as a personal insult. What am I supposed to do?

But I’ve been through that argument before. I can’t second-guess him. All I can do is what feels right to me - to act from my own integrity instead of trying to react to his lack of it.

“Now, Miss Granger.”

I look up. He holds out his hand.

“The knife, if you please.”

I hold it up, hilt first. He whips out his wand.

_“Imperio.”_

...and his voice holds me tight... as our minds interweave... and it feels oh so right...  
as I roll up a sleeve  
and I press in the blade... as he wants me to do...  
for he must be obeyed  
...and the red trickles through...  
and he wants to see more...  
and I want him to see... so I slash and I claw  
...and the river runs free, to pool red on the stone... and I offer it all, my blood flesh and bone... there’s a smile in his call...

And then there’s only screaming pain and stinking blood slippery on my hand as I throw down the knife and squeeze the wound closed. The blood throbs out between my fingers and the pain... _oh my God,_ what did he do? What did _I_ do?

“There Miss Granger. It’s not so difficult after all, is it?”

_ohmygod..._

“You see, Draco, she’s really quite eager to please when you know how to ask.”

 _Eager to please?_ The bastard, the utter bastard. How can he just stand there bloody lecturing while I’m bleeding to death? He’s a fiend from hell!

But those words chime through my mind like a warped bell I can’t ignore. This is a nightmare, it has to be. I knew he could make me do whatever he wanted with Imperius, but to make me _want_ to do it...

_Oh God, what’s he done to me?_

I rock back and forth on my knees, every part of me frozen numb except my left arm that’s warm with blood and torn by agony that lashes and writhes like an acid snake oh _God_ please stop it hurting… Nothing else is quite real. The lines of his pointed features are blurred. Malfoy’s pale face sways in and out of view above me.

“You did watch her eyes this time?” his father is saying.

“Well, I... Yes.” But Malfoy is looking at the blood. “Are you-”

“And did you see the difference?”

The difference? All I can see is blood, blood, blood, and isn’t that difference enough? The knife is red and silver against the dark grey stone. The knife that he _made me want to use._

It’s as if I’m floating in a vacuum of horror.

What’s he done to me? How can I fight him when he can make me _want_ to do what he says? To make me want to do _more_ than he says…

I shudder.

_It’s just Imperius._

But, oh God, I never knew Imperius could be like _that._ It’s as if, as if... he’s twisted something inside. How can I act from my own integrity when something so wrong can feel so right?

_Oh God, let it end. I can’t take any more._

They’re still discussing the bloody technicalities of the spell, but their words float over my head. I feel sick. Or I would, if I could feel anything but pain and cold fear.

This can’t be happening. It can’t.

But if it isn’t happening, then nothing matters, does it?

I… I can’t fight this. I don’t understand what he’s done to me, what he’s doing to me, what he’s going to do to me, but _I can’t let him._ I have to end it now.

I grab for the knife.

_No more._

But… I can’t do it.

_Yes I can. Hasn’t he just shown me I can?_

I point the long blade at my heart.

_Don’t think about it. Just do it._

His fingers close around my wrist. “Not now, Miss Granger. Only when I tell you.”

He jerks my hand upwards so I have to rise up on my knees. I sway in his grip, blinking away tears.

Why can’t he let me go?

But my left arm is hanging by my side, pumping out blood. I’m going to bleed to death anyway, and then there’ll be no more pain and he won’t be able to hurt me any more...

“Take the knife, Draco,” he says.

Malfoy reaches out, gingerly plucking it away with gloved thumb and forefinger pinched on the least bloodied part of the blade.

“Now go and rinse it off.”

Which leaves us alone. I’m too dizzy to care.

He seizes my other wrist and holds it up. The blood wells up between his fingers and runs down to drip drip drip from my elbow.

Water splashes in the sink. I sway, both wrists caught in his grip.

“Now, Hermione,” he says quietly, “I want you keep still for me. You may have no breeding to speak of, but that’s no excuse to slouch.”

Bastard. Bastard.

His fingers are inches away from my eyes, curled firmly around my wrists. Fingers... Not like the way he touched me last night. I don’t want him to touch me at all. Don’t want him to look at me, to see what he’s done...

But he knows. He knows. I can see it in his eyes.

“No.” I shake my head. “No...” 

He smiles.

I brace myself against his hands. It’s the only way I can hold myself up. I’m shaking with the strain.

“Good girl,” he says. “You’re finally starting to learn. I think I’ll grant you the bed tonight after all.”

_Like I care?_

He glances to our left. Malfoy is back.

“One more lesson, Draco, and then we’ll leave Miss Granger to reflect on the day’s events. Put the knife down, and come and hold her arm.”

His fingers tighten momentarily on my bloodied wrist before he pushes it towards his son. Malfoy eyes it. One corner of his mouth twitches down.

His father gives him a hard look.

Malfoy wrinkles his nose but grasps my arm. His father lets go of my other wrist as well. It’s harder to balance like this, but I daren’t not.

I’m swaying, I think, swimming in a haze of pain...

“That’s right, Draco,” his father says. “Take a good look at the wound.”

 _That’s right, Malfoy_ _\- and if you think that’s ugly, you should try having one in_ your _arm._

Then Lucius Malfoy says _“Sano”_ and everything glows golden in the light flowing from his wand. His face is alive with fierce concentration as he moves his wandtip slowly along my arm. And it’s warm... even the pain is fading.

The light fades with it. He lifts his wand away. “There,” he says.

Malfoy lets go of my arm. It’s still covered in blood. My legs feel like jelly. My knees are starting to hurt from the hard stone floor.

“Well, Miss Granger?”

I take a deep breath and concentrate on staying upright. “Thank you.”

He resumes his lecture. “The point I want you to remember, Draco, is... what?”

Malfoy swallows. “Er... how to do the healing spell?”

“So you’re confident you could do that now, are you?”

He doesn’t reply.

“No,” says his father. “The point I was trying to make is this: if you need to inflict injury to illustrate a point, you should choose a wound that you know you can repair. Unless, of course, it doesn’t matter if you lose the subject. But even then... Well, you know I can’t abide waste. It would be most inconvenient to be forced to find another Mudblood for you to practice on.”

_Oh, thank you very much._

He looks down at me. “By the time I come back, you will have washed, and cleaned your robe, and wiped the blood off the floor, and put the sheets back on the bed. Neatly. Is that clear?”

_You’re assuming I can even stand up. Big assumption._

“Yes, Mr Malfoy,” I say.

He turns away. “And now, Draco,” he says, “it really is time to leave Miss Granger to her own devices. Your mother will be expecting us at the dinner table in” - he pulls out his watch - “half an hour. Which reminds me... haven’t you forgotten something?”

“Er... I don’t think so.”

“You know we mustn’t forget to feed our pets, Draco. Not if we want to keep them.”

“Oh. I was just waiting for you to tell me when.”

“And I’m telling you now.”

I watch Malfoy flick his wand at the desk. A bowl appears, and the usual smell of soup mingles with the stench of blood - it seems as though Malfoy can do that spell, at least. Though I suppose I should reserve judgement on that until I’ve actually tasted what he’s left for me.

While he goes up to dine with his mother. His mother. I saw her once, in the box at the Quidditch World Cup. Narcissa. Another of Sirius’ cousins, though it’s hard to imagine.

Well, perhaps not so hard, having seen Sirius’ parents’ house. But still...

I look down at my arm. It’s crusted with blood, but beneath that it’s as if the wound was never there at all.

Does she - Narcissa - know what’s going on down here? She must have some idea, judging by what _he_ said to Macnair. But... but... I can’t quite believe that. Can’t believe that she would choose to stay with him, if she knew... or to _sleep_ with him, for God’s sake.

My hair quivers against my scalp. I jump. I pull my head back. Lucius Malfoy withdraws his hand, a dark light in his eyes.

“Good night, Miss Granger,” he says. A smile plays on his lips. “Sweet dreams.”

That’s what he said last night.

Malfoy is standing behind his father. When he sees me glance in his direction, he moves his lips to form soundless words:

“You wait, Granger.”

I don’t need to hear the words to feel their spite. His loathing hangs about him like a black cloud - and then they are gone.


	15. Knowledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius reveals more than he was intending to, and Hermione learns that a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.

I jerk awake, my eyes frantically trying to adjust to the non-existent light.

 _Stupid._ I know I can’t see anything down here! It’s my ears I need to rely on now.

I hold my breath. The room is breathing.

He’s here. And it’s still dark.

The last time he came in the dark…

_No. Not again._

I slowly shift my head and lie still, breathing steadily, pretending to be asleep like I used to do when Mum tried to catch me staying up to read. Pretending that he might leave me alone if I ignore him.

Because if he doesn’t…

He can make me do anything he likes, he proved that with his bloody Imperius demonstration. He can make me _want_ to do anything he likes.

And it’s still dark.

But it doesn’t _necessarily_ mean he hasn’t brought Malfoy. There are spells that need to be done in the dark…

There’s a creak. The mattress dips.

_Go away!_

But he’s sitting on the bed.

_Go away go away goaway_

He puts his hand on my back.

I roll away, wide-eyed, and scramble to the head of the bed. I sit with my back against the wall and my knees drawn up to my chest.

He chuckles. “Oh, so you are awake, then. Please don’t insult me again by presuming I can’t tell the difference.”

The bed creaks again.

_Don’t. Don’t come near me._

“Come here, Hermione. I have something to show you.”

_Go AWAY._

“Perhaps you should put on the light, then,” I say.

“Don’t be like that. You’ll enjoy it.”

_Or you’ll make me enjoy it, I suppose._

Because if he can make me want to cut my arm open, I suppose he can make me want any-

 _NO_.

“Don’t try my patience, Mudblood. I have a task for you. You’ll find it interesting. You should be grateful.”

_Keep talking._

“You’re... so you’re going to teach Malfoy - I mean Draco-”

I can hear the smirk in his voice as he cuts in. “Master Draco to you.”

_No. Sodding. Way._

And what can I say, anyhow? _Are you really depraved enough to teach your son..._ He probably wouldn’t even see that as an insult.

“And since you’re not asking: No. He’s too... young.”

“And I’m not?”

“Not any more.” His tone sharpens. “Now get up.”

I slide quickly across the bed, half expecting him to... but he doesn’t.

I stand up. The bed creaks again as he stands up behind me. His fingers brush the back of my neck, and curl over my shoulder.

_Don’t touch me!_

But he’s not moving his hand. He pushes me forwards and guides me across the room.

_What the hell is he playing at?_

At least he seems to be wearing gloves this time.

There’s a scrape of wood against stone. “Do sit down,” he says.

I lower myself onto the chair, bumping my leg against the desk in the dark.

_Now what?_

And now he does move his hand. It slides from my shoulder down along my arm. It takes hold of my wrist. I dig the nails of my other hand into my leg.

_Leave me alone!_

He pulls my hand forwards, and places it on... Something flat. Leather.

There’s a rustle as he bends down behind me. I can feel his breath on my ear.

I tilt my head away.

He speaks, one word: _“Lumos.”_

I flinch.

“Now, read,” he says.

I look at the book under my hand. I look at him.

He raises an eyebrow. “Well, what did you think I wanted?”

I turn look down, hoping to God that my embarrassment doesn’t show on my face. _Bastard._

But at least he _didn’t_ want…

My robe is gaping open where Malfoy made me cut it yesterday. Entirely too open, especially given where he’s standing. I hold it closed with my left hand, and turn my attention to the book.

It’s a slim volume, with black covers embossed with colourless letters:

_**The Black Book of Binding** _

As I look at them, there’s a prickle up my spine.

“Open it.” His fingers tighten on my shoulder.

I try to ignore them.

The first page of the book is blank.

On the second page, the title is inscribed in ornate lettering. Beneath that is a quilled dedication:

_For Valerius_

_In the unwarranted hope that you decide to_  
_make proper use of that brain one day._

_P. N._

Another heirloom, by the looks of it – handing down books like this must save them a fortune on school textbooks. Though I suspect this particular book has never been anywhere near a Hogwarts’ booklist.

I finger the edge of the page. Something in me doesn’t want to turn it.

“You have a question, Mudblood? Or is ‘Read’ not a clear enough instruction for you?”

I don’t want to turn the page.

“Who’s Valerius?”

Well, he did ask if I had a question...

“My grandfather. One of the sharpest intellects ever to have left Hogwarts unsullied. The Blacks don’t pass on their family secrets to just anyone, you know.”

The Blacks?

Oh... the title of the book.

“They wrote it?” I ask, to put off reading it.

“Actually, it was primarily the work of Phineas himself, so I’m told, not that he ever admitted as much in public. Very prudent of him, given that he was manoeuvring to become Headmaster at the time.”

I’m not sure if he’s expecting me to ask about Phineas Nigellus so he can taunt me for my ignorance, or if he’s just assuming I’ll know. And I do know, of course - I didn’t spend hours poring over _Hogwarts: A History_ for nothing, and Sirius filled me in on the rest of the story. House-elves aren’t the only things sanitised out of official records.

I rub my left wrist. That’s sanitised too, the smooth skin hiding what happened yesterday, leaving only the memory hidden beneath the surface. There should be something more tangible...

He even made me clean the blood off the floor. Erasing the evidence... _God._ This room is so stark, so cold. What else has it witnessed and forgotten?

That’s not a good thing to think about.

It looks as if I got all the blood, anyhow, so at least he can’t have a go at me for that. As if he couldn’t have just made it vanish with a wandflick.

The Black book lies in front of me as if it has a presence of its own, waiting...

Lucius Malfoy’s hand is still on my shoulder.

What’s he playing at now? Is he setting up another twisted lesson for the ferret? But what?

_If you want to know that, you’d better look at the book, hadn’t you?_

I glance over at the bathroom. The door is open. I half expected Malfoy to be hiding there, listening, but it looks as if we really are alone. I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad one.

Unless they’ve got an Invisibility Cloak. Which isn’t all that unlikely, considering.

But he never put his hand on me like this in front of Malfoy.

Still... it’s not a comfortable thought. I look around the room more carefully. As if I’d be able to tell. Stupid.

“Missing something?” he asks.

I look up at him, but his expression tells me nothing. “No. Should I be?”

“Or some _one_ , perhaps?”

I say nothing. His eyes narrow.

“Answer me, Hermione. Would you have preferred me to bring my son with me today?”

I shrug. “I thought it didn’t matter what I think.”

“It matters whether you answer my questions. You should know that by now.”

“Yes and no, then.” I wouldn’t care if I never saw that pasty-faced coward again. And I certainly don’t want to be his lab rabbit. But when he’s around, his father is... different. Less focused on me, I suppose.

“Ah. Well, I’m sorry to say that he’s rather less equivocal than you about the matter. But perhaps I’ll bring him back to practise the third Unforgivable, hmm?”

I look down. He slides his hand from my shoulder to catch my chin and tilt it towards him. I clamp down on the urge to pull away.

“Would you like that?” he murmurs.

“Would you?”

He frowns, and then he laughs. “Ah, Hermione. Draco really isn’t ready to appreciate you.”

He lets go. There’s something in his smile that I really don’t want to see, but it’s a challenge I refuse to look away from.

His mouth turns down. “But you’re wasting my time, little one. I’ve told you about that before.”

I look away, the cold clammy hand of fear fingering my spine. The warm unyielding hand that is the cause of it returns to my shoulder.

I turn the next page of the book. Blank. And then a contents page, written in a sinuous script with flourishes that dangle like tendrils of Devils’ Snare.

It would help if I knew what I’m supposed to be looking for.

“Why do you want me to read this?” I ask.

“Why do you ask stupid questions when I’ve told you to read?”

God, he’s infuriating. I turn to the first chapter.

And freeze as his hand moves closer to my neck

What the _hell_ is he playing at?

Trying to distract me, that’s what. So he can taunt me for not paying attention.

_How can I pay attention when he’s..._

I shove those words out of my mind and concentrate on the words on the page.

It’s actually... surprisingly interesting. I was expecting gruesome descriptions like the pictures in _Moste Potente Potions_ , but the first page wouldn’t look out of place in any standard Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook - well, any DADA textbook set by a teacher actually capable of teaching the subject. It’s just an overview of different types of Binding magic: simple rope-conjuring spells; the Permanent Sticking Charm that keeps Sirius’ Mum in her screeching spot at Grimmauld Place; the Leg-Locker Curse and the variants of _Petrificus_ ; Love Potions and other uses of dragon’s blood...

His hand shifts to where my shoulder meets my neck. It’s irritating. I try to brush it away, almost before I realise what I’m doing.

“Don’t mind me, little one,” he drawls. “Concentrate on what you’re doing.”

That’s exactly what I was trying to do before he distracted me! Honestly - can’t he see I’m trying to read?

The page pulls me back. There’s a complicated passage about shifting the body’s energy fields - I suppose that’s what he used to stick me to the wall - and... And something about emotions, which reminds me of what he made me read about manipulating Hagalaz Vectors.

I wonder if there’s anything in here about that potion? Anything that could be used to counter its effects?

Not that I’d be able to do anything about it, locked away down here.

Still... if only I could work it out!

But the next page starts off with the principles behind the Protean Charm. Well, this chapter _is_ only an overview, after all. There’s a whole book here waiting to be discovered.

His fingers are warm on my neck now.

Sod him. Let him play his stupid games. I’ve got better things to think about.

I turn back to the book.

It’s describing the Protean Charm’s theoretical application to Binding spells.

Theoretical? Well, it is an old book. Or was Phineas Nigellus hiding something?

And there’s more of a link than I thought, then. I thought it was just... coincidence, when I was working on the coins for the DA. That’s actually a bit creepy.

I turn another page.

“Hermione.”

“Mmm?” I scan down the page. Part of me doesn’t want to read any more, but I have to know.

One of his fingers strokes my throat, leaving my skin tingling in its wake.

I _wish_ he’d leave me alone!

The next page is illustrated with diagrams and writhing pictures. I look at them closely. Part of me feels that I shouldn’t be so... interested in how Marking techniques progressed from a raw brand to a crude implant to the magical bonding of servants, but it’s fascinating.

There’s something missing though. I can’t quite see what it is, but there’s something about this account that feels... incomplete. I wish I could figure out what it was. I want to know. I _need_ to know.

I flip back to the contents page. It’s further back than I thought. I haven’t really read twenty pages of this already, have I?

Marking is covered in Chapter Thirteen, just after the chapter on House-Elf Enslavement - it looks like the author was more honest about _that_ issue than any wizard I’ve ever met. Chapter Thirteen first, though...

“Hermione!”

His hand pushes up under my chin, forcing my head back. My fingers cling to the page, but all I can see is him, the frown on his lips, the crease on his forehead, his granite eyes boring down into mine.

I turn the pages of the book. Why won’t he let me look at it?

“Do you mind?” I say, in my best shush-we’re-in-the-library voice. “I’m trying to read!”

“Close the book.”

“But... I thought you said you wanted me to-”

“I said, _close the book!_ ”

I do, my hand jumping to obey almost of its own accord.

I’m... shaking. I’m not sure why.

Did I really tell him not to bother me? What came over me?

“Stand up.”

He releases my head and steps back. I look down at the book, my fingers still trailing over the cover.

Why did he stop me? I want to read Chapter Thirteen!

But I don’t. Not really.

I shudder. And I tear my hand from the book and shove back the chair and I stand and take four determined steps away from the desk.

I can’t believe I let myself get trapped like that, and in front of him, too. I _know_ what magical books can do. If he hadn’t been there, if he hadn’t been touching me...

Bastard.

And now he’s right behind me. I hold my robe closed with both hands.

His hand hovers over my shoulder - I see it from the corner of my eye. He lets it drop to his side.

“I hope,” he says, “that you have no further objections to the precautions I chose to take, especially as you took none yourself. Foolish child! What did you expect from a Book of Binding?”

_That’s not fair. He told me to read it!_

And how dare he call me a child?

“So what was it, Hermione? Curiosity? Vengeance? Determination to right wrongs?”

“I... I just wanted to know what it said! Can’t I just-”

I bite my lip.

“Curiosity, then. Interesting... But then, it was curiosity that brought you to me, wasn’t it?”

Two fingers brush the side of my neck. I glare at the wall.

All right, so he touched me before to stop the book sucking me in completely. But he’s got no reason to touch me now.

“And has your curiosity been satisfied, little one?”

I don’t know what to say. I’m... I’m not entirely sure whether he’s referring to the book or to... to something else. His words are a web tightening around me.

“Tell me,” he says.

I say nothing.

He sighs.

“Why are you making this so complicated?” he says. “You’re a natural student, Hermione. You _want_ to learn. And I believe we established yesterday how very much you want to please me.”

_No._

“You already know the Protean Charm,” he continues. “And you’ve made a very... interesting start on the application of Hagalaz vectors, primitive as your understanding of Thanatonic theory is.”

_Flattery will get you absolutely bloody nowhere._

I grit my teeth at the feel of his fingers on my hair. He pulls the brown curls back from my face.

“Talk to me, Hermione.”

_Breathe._

“I...”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t know what you want.”

“I want to know what you think, little one. And you will tell me. You’ve nothing else to do down here except mull over whatever little problem I leave you to consider. And we both know how very responsive you are to Veritaserum, even if you had no other incentive to be... co-operative.”

I don’t believe this.

“You want _my_ help with a Dark spell?”

“No,” he snaps. “I don’t need your _help_ with anything, Mudblood. Let’s just say that I’m curious about your... unique perspective on a few matters of minor interest.”

And his gloved finger traces a line from my right temple down to my neck.

It feels like a filthy, slimy, slug trail. I squeeze the folds of fabric in my hands.

_He’s just trying to freak you out._

Yeah, and he’s doing a damn good job of it!

“I don’t have a perspective on Dark Magic,” I say. “I don’t understand it.”

“Ah, but you will.” His fingers curl onto my throat. “You wouldn’t turn your back on an opportunity to further your knowledge. You know that as well as I do.”

No.

_But if I want to fight it, surely it would be better to learn-_

_NO!_

Dark magic is evil, it feeds on you, it twists you. Casting Cruciatus at him taught me more about that than I ever wanted to know.

“No, Mr Malfoy,” I say, holding myself rigid, upright, ignoring the warmth of his hand, the warmth of his body not-quite-touching mine. “I couldn’t learn about that. My mind doesn’t work that way.”

He snorts. “Your mind isn’t working at all. Every time you open your mouth you make it abundantly obvious that you don’t think like a proper wizard. And that, Hermione, is precisely the point.”

So... what? He wants to change the way I think? To corrupt me, to make me work for him, then parade me in front of Professor Dumbledore and all my friends?

No way.

_But didn’t he establish yesterday how very much he can make you want to please him?_

No.

“You’re just afraid, aren’t you?” he says. “I’m surprised to see a _Gryffindor_ stopped by such a little thing as fear.”

_Of course I’m afraid! You’re not going to manipulate me that way._

“There’s no shame in being afraid of things that are dangerous,” I say.

He laughs. “Very sensible, Hermione. Such an attitude is almost worthy of Slytherin. But you’re wrong, you know. It’s not Dark magic that’s dangerous.”

One of his fingers strokes my throat.

_Don’t touch me!_

“Of course it’s dangerous! It’s evil and I want nothing to do with it!”

He sucks in his breath and pulls his hand away. He takes two steps away, turns, and then his boots click back and forth behind me.

“And you, _Mudblood_ , are an arrogant, ignorant, hypocritical little fool! You think you’re so virtuous - but really you’re afraid of having your virtue tested! _That’s_ why you pretend to treat the Dark Arts with contempt!”

_Stupid, Hermione! Why did you provoke him like that?_

Because he was provoking me! Because of the way his fingers-

_Don’t think about that!_

He stops pacing. I stand very still.

“So, Hermione,” he says softly. “Let’s discuss that, shall we? What would you do if I taught you how to cast Avada Kedavra?”

_I’d cast it on you, you evil piece of scum..._

He runs his right thumb slowly along my jawbone.

_Don’t touch me!_

“Would you want to kill me, Hermione?”

As if I’m stupid enough to answer that!

He laughs. “You’re not denying it, little one - would you really risk a lifetime in Azkaban for my sake? I’m touched.”

_They only send you to Azkaban for using it on human beings..._

“So you don’t want to talk about it?” he says. “Very well... Let’s assume you would. And you would think yourself justified, wouldn’t you? You would tell yourself that I deserved it, that you were putting the world to rights...”

No. I am _not_ going to get drawn into this.

“But that would only be the start, wouldn’t it? So many wrongs that could be righted with the simple application of a little magic... And you’re so very sure about the difference between right and wrong, aren’t you?”

I’m shaking my head, I realise. He’s still talking, relentless. I don’t want to listen. He’s evil. He twists everything. Nothing he says means anything.

“No, Hermione? Well, it’s fortunate that you’ve never learned how, isn’t it? It’s so much easier to remain in ignorance, so much easier to convince yourself of your own integrity when you’ve never given yourself the opportunity to find out the truth.”

_No. You’re wrong, you’re wrong._

He trails a finger down my right cheek. “You’re not afraid of the Dark Arts. You’re afraid of your own weakness. Your own power. _That’s_ what Dumbledore really wants to teach: not to rise above the mediocrity he so prizes.”

_No!_

He laughs again, a quiet laugh that surrounds me like a blanket of cold black fog. “You’re not denying it, Hermione.” I jerk my head away as he touches my ear. “But you are listening, aren’t you? Wouldn’t you like to prove me wrong?”

_You ARE wrong. I don’t need to prove anything!_

His finger moves very lightly over my skin, from my ear around the back of my jaw, and down and to the right.

I shiver despite myself.

_Make him stop!_

How?

“But you’re afraid to try, aren’t you?” he goes on. “It’s so much easier to label me ‘evil’ than to acknowledge that I’ve chosen to take a risk that you’re too cowardly to face, that I’ve had the courage to challenge myself in a way that you’ll never dare to do.”

And his hand is resting on my shoulder now, his thumb is stroking over my collarbone and _I can’t stand it._ It’s all lies, lies and I don’t want to hear any more. He’s a coward, a hypocrite, and there are other fears to face besides the one he’s talking about.

Like him. Like the way he keeps touching me. Like his right hand, heavy on my right shoulder.

So I touch it. I grab for his wrist with my left hand, just above his glove.

He flinches, I feel it. As if he’s been hit by an electric shock.

He lets go. I don’t. He pulls his hand back and I twirl round to follow it.

He’s staring at me, nostrils flared. His lip curls.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

I swallow. “Why are you afraid to be touched?”

There’s a long second of icy silence. Then it shatters as he twists his wrist from my grasp and pushes me back against the wall.

“And what,” he snarls, “makes you think I’m _afraid_?”

I look away from him, my right cheek pressed against the stone.

_What have I done?_

It had to be said.

_No it bloody well didn’t!_

He turns my head back towards him with two unrelenting fingers hooked under my chin.

“I want an answer to that, Hermione.” His voice is very quiet, like a sharp knife sliding into a rabbit’s throat.

“I...”

“Hmm?” He tilts my chin up further, pushing my head back against the wall.

I can’t think of anything to say but the truth.

“If I touch you, you… you’re angry.” I look past him, avoiding his gaze. “And you don’t touch me, not unless you’re wearing gloves, or it’s dark, or, or…”

_Or you’re behind me. Where you don’t have to look…_

There’s a long pause. His lips twitch. He raises an eyebrow.

“Well, well, well. What an interesting hypothesis. Shall we put it to the test?”

I feel sick.

_Why couldn’t you keep your mouth shut?_

But the way he was _touching_ me!

 _And_ this _is better?_

He releases my chin and closes his hand over my right hand, which is still holding my robe where the randy little ferret made me cut it.

He smiles at me, sickeningly. “So. I think we can dispense with the false modesty, don’t you?”

I don’t resist as he plucks my hand away. I don’t resist as he lifts it above my head and holds it against the stone. I don’t resist as he lifts up my other hand to join it and holds both of them there in his left hand. I feel numb.

“So, Hermione,” he says. “Do you prefer it like this?”

I... I can’t speak. I shake my head a fraction.

“No,” he drawls, “I can’t say I do, either. But you did insist, you see.”

He traces the scar on the left side of my face, one finger sliding lightly over my skin. My cheeks are burning. I look away, to the right. I look down.

The fabric on one side of the tear has slid down a little, folding in on itself. But the other flap is hanging, leaving the top of my left breast horribly visible.

_Well, what does it matter? It’s not like he hasn’t already seen me naked._

But... but...

And I watch black fingers push the fabric to the side, pulling the robe to my left so that the whole of my breast is exposed. And I squirm, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

“Keep still,” he says. “This is distasteful enough, without you making it worse.”

I look away, to the left where my arm is stretched up above my head.

And I feel the smooth warm leather of his glove under my chin, below my collarbone, towards...

I look down. His hand is spread across my breast like some grotesque black five-legged spider.

_No._

I stare past those fingers, look down at the stone floor.

This isn’t happening. It isn’t.

_At least it’s not Cruciatus._

His fingers tighten on my breast. I bite my lip and breathe, trying to ignore it.

But of course, he doesn’t like being ignored.

“Now, Hermione,” he murmurs. “How am I supposed to look at you, when you won’t look at me?”

I wish he wouldn’t call me ‘Hermione’.

I lift my head, slowly. He lets go of my breast to push my chin up higher, so I can’t avoid looking at his face, half-hidden in shadow.

My gaze meets his.

There’s no colour at all in his eyes.

“That’s better,” he says. “I want you to keep your head just like that. You are not to look down. Is that clear?”

I nod. My lower lip trembles.

“Good.” He sweeps his gaze down to my feet, lip curling disdainfully. It’s all I can do not to squirm. Not to look.

Then he reaches out, one finger brushing... and I do squirm, I can’t help it.

He lifts his finger away. “Ah, but.” He smiles. “That isn’t quite what you wanted, is it?”

There’s nothing I can say to that.

He lifts his right hand to his mouth, and unfastens the button at the wrist of his black glove with his white teeth. His gaze never wavers.

I _don’t_ want him to touch me.

“Hmm.” He glances at his glove, at me, at his other hand imprisoning mine.

“Now,” he says. “I am going to let go of your hands, and you are not going to move a muscle. Can you do that for me?”

I nod. As if I could do anything else.

“I didn’t hear that.”

“Yes.” I can barely hear myself speak.

“Yes, what?”

_Oh, for God’s sake. The bastard, the complete and utter bastard..._

“Yes... Mr Malfoy.”

I want to shrivel up and die.

“There’s no need to look at me like that. I’m only doing this because you asked me to.”

I meet his gaze head-on, with as much challenge as I dare. But my humiliation is painfully visible, written across my face in red. He’s won this one, and he knows it.

Isn’t there _anything_ I can do?

He lets go of my hands and steps back. He peels off his right glove, his eyes never leaving mine as I stand there with my arms stretched upwards and my head tilted up so I can see more of the ceiling than the room.

“I’m sixteen, Mr Malfoy.”

He pauses, glove in hand. “And?”

“Doesn’t that mean anything to you? I’m the same age as your son, for God’s sake! How can you-”

I bite off the flow of words. I’m getting hysterical, and this is horrible and _I wish he’d leave me alone_ , but it’s not going to help.

He frowns. “Ah, yes, sixteen. Let’s see...” He touches my forehead with his left, gloved, thumb. “Old enough to carry around some very interesting information in that head of yours...” He reaches up and strokes a finger across my wrist. “Old enough to execute a passable Cruciatus Curse, not to mention several other interesting little spells. In other words, old enough to be dangerous.” He smiles. “And old enough to catch the eye of an international Quidditch star, and old enough to grace the gossip columns of _Witch Weekly_ , so I’m told; and-” he flicks his gaze _down,_ “old enough, Hermione. Just on the threshold of adulthood. A most interesting age, wouldn’t you say?”

His pupils are large in the dim light, deep dark pools reflecting my own.

“Stay there,” he says.

As if I have a choice.

He turns, and walks towards the desk. I risk a momentary glance at his hands.

He’s unfastening his left glove.

I wish Malfoy were here. He wouldn’t be doing this if Malfoy were here, I know he wouldn’t.

And he returns and stands an arm’s-length away from me, sweeping his gaze over every part of me he’s forbidden me to look at.

My arms are aching. And suddenly I feel really stupid just standing here, letting him play his sick little game of pretending I _want_ him to do this. I should have moved while he was over at the table, just to stretch my arms, just to show him that no, I don’t want him to touch me _at all-_

And he steps in and catches my wrists in his left hand. His warm, gloveless left hand.

His grip is stronger than before. He’s leaning in.

And... it’s different, with his bare skin against mine.

I want to look away, to look anywhere but at the harsh lines of his face, but there’s something in his gaze that locks mine to it.

“That was very good, Hermione,” he says. His voice has a new edge, rougher. “Soon we’ll have you as obedient as a house-elf, hmm?”

Bastard! I want to kick him. Except that standing in front of him, pinned to the wall by his hand and his gaze, I... couldn’t.

He smiles. I shudder. He reaches out to tuck my hair behind my ears.

“Now, I think that such a very good girl deserves a reward, don’t you?”

_Great. You can let go of me then._

Fat chance.

And his fingers are trailing over my breast, just as they did when he was holding me against the bathroom door in the dark, except that then there was my robe in the way, and the fabric may have been thin but it was still _there._

Now, though...

He’s still watching my face. I’m still watching his, for any sign of... I don’t know what. I don’t want to know. It’s as if there’s nothing in the world except his narrowed eyes and his finely arched brows and that little twist at the corner of his mouth. Those warm fingers against my skin are a different thing entirely.

There’s a fleeting, feather-light touch across the very tip of my nipple and I... I... I’m glad he’s forbidden me to look.

His lips twitch.

And there’s pressure there now, a sharpening not-pain, and I can feel my muscles tense and it’s all I can do not to try to pull away because I know he would only make it worse.

His left eyebrow lifts a millimetre. His eyes hold me fast.

And his fingers _twist_ , and a sweet-sharp pulse quivers through every nerve and I gasp and my shoulders scrape against the wall.

Not that it... hurt. It would almost be better if it had.

His lips curve into a smile.

“You know, Hermione,” he says, “I think you were right. This is far more interesting when I can watch you react.”

_Oh, so it’s a reaction you want, is it?_

I glare at him.

“Oh.” He raises both eyebrows in mock inquiry. “Didn’t you like it?”

I don’t respond. Any response would lead straight into a trap.

“Pity.” He smirks. “I confess I am starting to find this rather entertaining.”

What the hell does he mean, ‘starting to’? How can someone be so patronising, intimidating and downright _slimy_ all at once?

I turn my head away. I can’t stand it, can’t look at him, him and that ugly light in his eyes. But I can still smell him, I can’t get away from that - not the dusty-robe-and-rotting-roses smell but the _him_ smell, the smell of his skin that somehow seems sharper and stronger than it’s been before.

“Look at me.”

And I have to obey. I’m shaking now, he must be able to see.

“Ah, little one,” he murmurs. “You really are exquisite.”

His fingers slither towards my belly.

_Don’t. Don’t._

He smiles. “Do you remember that day I met you in the bookshop?”

How could I forget my worst nightmare coming to life?

_What I thought was my worst nightmare..._

“Yes,” he continues, “you really made quite an impression, trembling and blushing and hating me and telling me everything you never wanted me to know. I’m so glad we could deepen our acquaintance. Aren’t you?”

How does he expect me to respond to that?

And his hand slides across my belly and _down_ , and he’s still looking at me and _how can he-_ I blink back tears.

His lip curls.

“Well, I’m sorry if I’m not living up to your expectations,” he says. “Because you’re certainly living up to mine.”

He lifts his hand up to twists his fingers into my hair, pulling my head back so all I can see is the ceiling and... and his face, leaning down towards mine.

I try to look away, but his hand in my hair holds me fast.

“So, little one,” he says softly. “What can we do to make this more... interesting for you?”

_Oh God._

“Don’t. Please.”

“Oh? And what, exactly, don’t you want me to do?”

_I..._

Raised eyebrow, inches from mine. I can feel his breath on my cheek. I can _hear_ him breathe. Too harsh. Too fast.

_No. Oh God, no..._

I wrench my head to the right. He jerks it back. A tear rolls down my cheek. That _hurt._

He releases my hair. The tips of his fingers brush my cheek and then one comes to rest at the corner of my mouth.

Which is open, I realise, from trying to breathe with my head pushed back. And from the pain...

I clamp my lips together. He laughs.

“Ah, Hermione, you do like your little games of resistance, don’t you?” His voice drops, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “And this would be so much less sweet if you didn’t...”

He draws his thumb across my lips and lets it rest there. His face is far too close to mine.

“So,” he murmurs, “shall we explore how ineffective your resistance really is?”

I twist my head away, away from him, but he hooks his thumb around my chin and brings me back to the reality of him leaning over me, to that cruel and eager spark in his eyes, to his harsh mouth, to his tongue flicking over his lips...

_But he wouldn’t. Not to a Mudblood._

He lowers his head towards mine. My eyes meet his, as if I could keep him away from me by the force of _wanting_ to.

He smiles.

I close my eyes.

And... nothing.

I can feel myself quivering but I try to hold still.

And nothing.

And something slams against my cheek, sending sharp shards of pure-white agony bursting through my head.

I stumble sideways, blinking up at him.

_But-_

“So!” he snarls. “You think you can get round me that way, you Mudblood slut?”

He’s gone mad!

He steps towards me, hand raised for another blow. I scramble backwards, away. He’s gone mad, I don’t know why but I do know I have to keep out of his reach until he calms down.

But he has a wand. And that is everything.

_“Locomotor Mortis!”_

For a moment I sway, scrabbling at the wall. If I can only stay upright… at least I could hop out of his reach!

But then I overbalance and my fingers can’t hold their grip on the cracks in the stone and the floor rushes up to meet me. I fling out my hands to break the impact but my hipbone bangs painfully on the stone and my right wrist twists beneath me.

I blink away tears. I push myself over with my left hand, roll once across the floor.

“Don’t run away from me, you little bitch! You weren’t running away a minute ago!”

The spittle flies from his mouth. His face is twisted, raging.

“No... No, I didn’t mean...”

“Shut up!”

He slashes the air with his wand, and the _Flagellus_ Hex lashes hard across my breast. I scream, my hand clasped over the pain that burns just where his fingers were groping mere minutes ago.

“Shut up, I said!”

He stalks towards me, wand raised...

I frantically push myself over again. Need to roll under the desk-

And my stomach lurches and the world’s upside down with nothing to hold onto.

 _Slam_ Stone _painpainpain_

I slide down the wall.

“You arrogant, pathetic, Mudblood _bitch_!”

And he hurls me against the wall again and I scream for him to _stop, stop_ and he laughs with pure malice and says “oh, so _now_ you want to stop” and stone meets bone with blood-chilling _crack_ as pain explodes and arms around head and _stop stop stop stop stop_

And he has.

I’m curled on the floor. Moving hurts. Breathing hurts. Treacherous tears squeeze out from under my eyelids, salt-trails betraying my weakness. I can’t move.

His boot thuds on the stone beside my ear.

Flinching hurts.

His hand in my hair as I lie limp as a rag-doll. Even motionlessness hurts too much.

He raises my head a little and pulls up one eyelid. I blink away the blurry tears and...

I shudder and close my eyes. I can’t look at him.

“Damn,” he mutters. “ _Damn.”_

He lowers my head to the floor and steps away.

There’s a _crack_ that’s mercifully free of pain.

When I twitch my eyes open, he’s gone.

But I can’t move, can’t do anything except wait for him to come back, and hope to die before he does.

Like when I had to wait Petrified and petrified in the dark, wondering if that snake was going to come back to life before I did.

I wish it had. But he killed it, in the end.

I thought he was going to kill me, a moment ago. I wish he had.

...by flinging me against the walls of his dungeon. Just like he did with the snake.

Even his expression was the same then - twisted completely out of control, as if it wasn’t the snake he wanted to kill at all. And his expression before that, as well... that smug _observation_ , the roughness in his voice...

I... I don’t like that thought at all. I bury it deep beneath my awareness of pain.

 _Focus on light._ He left the light on. He left the book, I can see it on the edge of the desk, not that I’d have a hope of reaching it. Not that I’d want to.

Did he mean to?

It doesn’t matter.

It does. If he didn’t mean to leave the light on, he didn’t mean to... that means he lost it just now.

_Of course he lost it! You know him well enough by now to tell the difference!_

Yes.

_Oh God._

I close my eyes, and wait.

Wait in a haze of pain.

And wait.

And wait.

Until I don’t know whether it’s really his hand on my neck or just another variation on the pain that’s shredding my nerves and scraping my bones. And I don’t know whether the addition of an agonised moan to the symphony of suffering in my head is because my leg was moved or just... because. Just as I don’t know whether that enveloping warmth is a bath of sunlight or of acid until it dissolves away all the pain.

To be free of it is sweet agony. I’m shaking, sobbing with relief.

I can’t look at him.

But I need to look at him. Need to thank him for taking away the pain. Perhaps I shouldn’t feel grateful, but I do.

It doesn’t hurt any more. That’s all that matters.

_Not true._

Easy to say now.

But I say nothing. And he says nothing, though I can feel the warmth of him crouching beside me until my sobbing subsides.

And then I do look at him, and he’s not smiling - I don’t know why I thought he might be - and he’s not smirking, either. He looks... closed. Whiter than usual.

He removes his hand from my shoulder. He stands crisply and beckons me to do the same.

I move my hand to hold my robe closed. He stops me with a look.

“Don’t bother, Mudblood,” he says harshly. “I’m not interested.”

But he does look, though with none of the mockery he showed before. As if he’s just doing it to challenge himself.

A muscle twitches in his cheek.

And then he touches me, one naked hand on my bare shoulder, but there’s a stiffness to it and when I look up at his eyes they’re as expressionless as his face, as if he’s purged whatever was raging there before. But I know now, I know about that untamed snake lurking in the depths and I feel a hundred years older for knowing it, and I hope to God that he never questions me with Veritaserum again because I can’t imagine what he’d do if he knew that I know.

But I search for its absence anyway, wanting to believe I’m wrong. And then he smiles, and even that manages to be devoid of any meaning at all.

“Well, well,” he says in a voice that tries to match but is overlain by the faintest echo of his usual superior amusement, “do you have no limits, little one?”

_Do you?_

I hold his gaze. __

He returns a chilly little smile. “Oh, I’m sure you do, Hermione. And we will find them together, you and I.”

The warmth drains out of me, leaving me ice-still, as if his words carried a Petrifying Curse in their wake. I’m still staring at his empty eyes, trying to pretend that it’s choice rather than fear that stops me looking away.

His lips curve in that familiar arrogant smirk.

“So. I think it’s time for you to go back to bed.”

And I turn and do as he says, in a pool of dead silence disturbed only by the jumpy rhythm of my heart. I half expect him to tell me to lie on top of the blankets, but he lets me get beneath them and pull them up to my chin.

As if that’s any real shelter.

He leans over the bed. I watch his every move, like paralysed prey waiting for its predator to strike, waiting for a chance to run when there’s nowhere to run to.

He reaches towards my forehead. Every muscle in my body stiffens.

He chuckles quietly. “You’re not afraid to be touched, are you?”

I stare back.

His hand brushes my temple as he pushes my hair back from my face. He stands up.

And takes out his wand. And smiles.

He wants to see my fear, and I offer it to him. If I don’t, he’ll only make things worse so he can take it anyway.

He lifts up his wand.

_“Nox.”_

_I shouldn’t be afraid of the dark. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. The room is_ not _closing in on me..._

But the room with him in it is a completely different matter...

I hold myself very still. I can’t hear a thing.

Not even his breathing.

Then out of nowhere his wand presses hard against my throat. I twist and gulp for breath.

“Keep still!”

I obey. I find I can breathe, just about.

It hurts.

“Are you afraid, little one?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Good. You should be. And you know why, don’t you?”

_Of course I know why! You’ve bloody well shown me, over and over and over!_

“Because,” he continues, “I can do anything I choose with you. To you. You do understand this?”

“Yes.”

_But there are things you’d never choose to do. I know that now._

“And you will do everything I tell you do, won’t you?”

“Yes.” _Until I get the chance to do otherwise..._

“You see, Hermione? You do belong to me.”

I... say nothing.

His wand grinds against my throat. I suck in a breath.

But I say nothing.

“You’re not denying it, Hermione.”

Silence.

I need to answer him - what’s the point of making it worse for myself? But I can’t bring myself to-

“Well,” he says with an edge of irritation, “evidently we’ll have to work on that one. Let me put it another way, then. I am in _complete_ control here. Do you understand?”

My voice comes out in a strangled wheeze. “Yes.”

_I understand, all right. More than you’d ever want me to._

He lifts his wand away. Air fills my grateful lungs.

“Good,” he says. “ _Obliviate._ ”

I jerk up from the pillow, my eyes frantically trying to adjust to the non-existent light.

 _Stupid._ I know I can’t see anything down here! It’s my ears I need to rely on now.

I hold my breath. The room is breathing.

He’s here. And it’s still dark.

The last time he came in the dark…

_No. Not again._

There’s a sudden _crack._ When I hold my breath again I hear nothing at all. __

What was he doing here?

_Trying to freak you out. Settle down and go back to sleep._

But… if he only went away because I woke up...

It’s a long time before I can stop shuddering and give myself to the soft silent darkness of sleep.


	16. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> History gets personal as Lucius defends his view of the world.  
> Must the present be built on the past? Hermione is about to find out.

He’s alone.

_And the last time he came alone-_

But he fills the room with stark sensible light, thank God. No Boggart-shadows here.

Something flickers at the back of my mind.

 _Sweet dreams_ , he said last time...

But I don’t remember dreaming anything. Probably just as well.

I hold my torn robe closed, my back safe against the wall. But he’s just frowning at me from the middle of the room, his hands behind his back. No, he doesn’t want to touch me in the light, even if the ferret isn’t here to see.

“Come here, Miss Granger.”

I... I don’t want to. Not that I ever _wanted_ to carry out his orders, except for last time when he cast Imperius on me, but his voice always cut through any thought of wanting or not wanting. This time... why do I have to force myself to cross the floor?

I hope he can’t see that I’m shaking.

It must be a reaction to the Imperius - keeping away from him helps me know that I’m _me_.

Stupid, I know. But it’s a gut reaction and I can’t help it.

I try not to flinch as he brings his hands into view. His right hand is holding his wand; his left hand plucks mine away from my robe. A flash of panic burns my cheeks as the robe falls open, but he pinches the tear closed.

Still, I wish he’d let go.

He’s wearing thicker gloves than normal. Outdoor gloves.

“Look at me, Miss Granger.”

I look up. He searches my face for... I don’t know. His is completely cold, apart from a downward twist at the corner of his mouth.

He’s... different. Why is he calling me ‘Miss Granger’ when the ferret isn’t here?

I glance to the side, half expecting to see him standing there.

Lucius Malfoy - yes, I _can_ use the name - laughs. “Oh no,” he says, “Draco won’t be joining us today. He had to go back to school.”

I look down - at the floor, at his hand twisted in the fabric of my robe. School is where Ron and Harry and Professor Dumbledore are. Draco Malfoy gone is a chink of light in the darkness.

His father laughs again. “But don’t start hoping that he’ll tell someone about our little sessions here. I think you’ll find that he’s forgotten all about them.”

_Forgotten? But..._

I stare at him. “You Obliviated your own son?”

He smirks. “There’s no need to look so shocked. I did explain the necessity beforehand. And it would hardly be the first time.”

I... I feel like I’ve turned to lead. Was I really pinning so much hope on Malfoy’s big mouth? Did I really believe his own father wouldn’t have thought of that?

I wonder if he did the same to Macnair. If it’s really only him that knows I’m down here... no. No.

I could cry. But I _won’t_.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why?” he asks.

_No. Isn’t it obvious?_

“Well, you see, I happened to overhear Draco talking about you to his two friends. Gregory and Vincent - but you know them, don’t you?”

_Unfortunately._

“Well, let’s just say that my son had devised some rather - interesting - ideas for his future lessons with you, most of which seemed to involve you kneeling on the floor and... well, a lamentable lack of imagination. I’m sure you can fill in the details.”

I’d really rather not. I look away. I don’t want to hear this.

“Or perhaps you can’t,” he murmurs. “Somehow I don’t think you’ve read _those_ kinds of books, have you, Hermione? I suspect Draco would have needed to give you some rather detailed instructions - once he’d mastered Imperius.”

I feel as if every square inch of my body is crawling with cockroaches.

His wand is hard under my chin as he forces my head up and those pale eyes bore into mine.

“But we wouldn’t have wanted that, would we?” he says softly.

I shudder. His lips twitch.

And suddenly I can’t stand being close to him, can’t _stand_ him holding me. I push his wand away from my chin and beat on the hand holding my robe so he’ll let go _let go Let Go!_

_“Keep still!”_

I stand there, head down. I can’t even make him let go of me, and what would be the use if I could? All I’ve done is give him an excuse.

“S-sorry,” I gulp, hating myself.

There’s a frigid pause. I daren’t look up.

“You’re mine, Miss Granger,” he says. “Never forget that.”

He pulls me closer and I freeze as he touches his wand to my throat. But then he runs it down over the tear in my robe, muttering a mending spell. Not a very neat one either - I could have done it much better. If I cared how I look in these rags he gave me.

He pushes me away. I stumble backwards, blinking at him.

“That’s better,” he says. “I see no need for you to flaunt yourself.”

I don’t react. He’s only getting at me because he’s annoyed at Malfoy. Although... I have the strangest feeling that I’m missing something, but the thought slides away every time I try to grasp it. Maybe it’s just Malfoy and his sick little fantasies - I can’t say I’m sorry _those_ thoughts have been wiped out of his head. Except, except that they could have got me out of here.

God, that would have been ironic. Malfoy... I’m going to have nightmares about that, I know I am.

“So.” He strides towards the desk. “I think it’s time for a history lesson. I’m getting weary of the way you pass judgement on matters of which you are completely ignorant.”

What?

He frowns. “Pay attention, Miss Granger. Surely you don’t think I come here for the pleasure of your company?”

He’s glaring at me, daring me to react, but I’ve heard the insult too many times for it to register. He seats himself behind the desk, and points imperiously to the chair facing him. I hurry to sit down, keeping my hands folded in my lap. His hands are out of sight too... which is a relief.

Stupid thing to think. He still has his wand, after all.

Or... maybe Malfoy Junior _is_ here, hiding under an Invisibility Cloak or in the bathroom, waiting to watch his father’s next sick little demonstration...

I can’t help glancing behind me. Lucius Malfoy sneers.

“Worried about Draco? Well, you needn’t. It’s just you and me now.”

_Right. Like that’s a reason not to worry._

Across the desk, he smiles.

And steeples his fingers. “So, shall we begin? Let us start with the theory - we’ll save the practical part for later.”

What...? Oh, the ‘history lesson’. But what on earth does he mean by ‘the practical part’? 

Well, whatever it is, it can’t be as bad as his bloody Dark Arts lessons. I hope.

He’s leaning back in his chair, looking at me in a way that... as if he’s not certain of something. But as my eyes meet his, he shrugs and leans forward.

“Very well. Tell me, Miss Granger, have you ever heard of the Knights of Walpurgis?”

I shake my head.

“Good. Someone in your position shouldn’t have. So it seems they’ve been true to one part of their heritage, at least, though these days the secrecy serves mainly to bolster the egos and careers of petty officials. The last I heard, they’d even let in some half-bloods... I never thought I’d see standards slip so far.”

He’s talking about something like the freemasons? Some sort of anti-Muggle secret society? But... what does he mean by ‘officials’? _Ministry_ officials?

Perhaps he had a point about the things I don’t know. If he’s not just making it all up.

“But,” he continues, “they were pure at the start, when they stayed true to their purpose. Would you care to take a guess at what that purpose was?”

“Persecuting Muggleborns?” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“You’re forgetting your history.”

_Crack._

Pain lashes across my cheek. He smirks.

He _really_ needs to work on his sense of humour.

“If you care to recall,” he says dryly, “the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy was passed because the Muggles were persecuting _us._ ”

“But there wasn’t that much real danger, was there? Professor Binns said-”

“Shut up!”

 _Crack!_ I clap my hand to my face.

“Don’t talk to me about the travesty that passes for History of Magic at that place! Dreary lists of battles and political manoeuvres shorn of the social codes that underlay _why_ what was done was done... and another generation of wizards grows up thinking that history has no relevance! Binns should have been replaced years before he died, but would the other governors listen, even four years ago? ‘Oh no, Binns is a ghost,’ they’d say, ‘ _Binns_ can check his facts with the ones who were _there_.’ As if _ghosts_ are too _spiritual_ for politics!”

I keep my eyes lowered. I ought to be terrified - and I am, I’m praying he won’t turn that anger on me - but there’s also something faintly ridiculous about his tirade, so that it’s hard to suppress a smile. I _do_ suppress it, though.

“I expect you were going to quote Wendelin the Weird at me, were you?”

Somehow I think it’s safer not to answer that.

He snorts. “A pretty myth to convince children there was ‘no real danger’, as you put it. But one masochistic witch doesn’t make the horror less real, Mudblood. Too many things that should not have been forgotten have been written out of history. So let me tell you some of what they don’t teach you at school.”

I shouldn’t be interested. Whatever he has to say is bound to be a pack of lies, after all - just a way of justifying his prejudices. But I can’t help remembering that no one mentioned the house-elves... What else haven’t they told us?

“The old families have always carried the duty to protect their weaker neighbours,” he says, “- a duty that too many have learned to neglect. It was my ancestors, among others, who devised the Statute of Secrecy, and to us fell the responsibility of implementing it. And enforcing it.”

He’s fingering his wand, I realise - I’m sure he wasn’t holding it a moment ago. I glance from his hands to his face. He’s gazing at the wand as if there’s nothing else in the world...

Then he glares at me.

“Yes, little one,” he says quietly, “you should be thankful that I’ve been lenient so far. In the old days I could have had you publicly put to the Blood-Boiling Curse for the insolence you’ve shown me here. And I may yet do it.”

I stare at the familiar surface of the desk, trying to ignore the frost creeping up my spine.

But he just continues his lecture, thank God.

“I believe there was even a Weasley at that meeting,” he says, sneering, “not that you’d find that brood of blood-traitors admitting it now. That family should have been properly dealt with when they first proposed removing _Defence Against the Muggle World_ from the school curriculum last century. But by then the Knights had grown fat enough to forget their duties, and so the Muggle-lovers have been allowed to deny our true history ever since.”

He frowns at me, as if challenging me to contradict him. A challenge easily resisted while he’s looking at me like that.

“And now,” he goes on, “most wizards can’t perceive the threat, and those who should know better prefer to wear the blinkers. Oh yes: Muggles are so eccentric, so peculiar, so _quaint_... and so determined to wipe themselves out and the rest of the world along with them!” He laughs bitterly. “And those of us who dare to look at the truth and act on it are labelled ‘Dark’. Ironic, wouldn’t you say?”

Does he expect me to answer that? I... I don’t know. He twists everything...

He leans back, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

“But...” I swallow. “But you do use Dark Magic.”

“And?”

_‘And’? As if it’s nothing?_

“Well... Isn’t that dangerous? How can you protect-”

“Dark magic is a perfectly legitimate branch of magic!” he snaps. “Sometimes you need to destroy before you can rebuild - and I don’t mean in the Muggle way.”

 _So what_ do _you mean?_

“And don’t try telling me that the Muggle-lovers are harmless,” he says. “Muggles can do us far more damage than we do to them - you admitted yourself that they have weapons that could destroy everything. And if they don’t do it with fire, they’ll do it by pouring their poison into the air and the earth and the sea. Dirty, stupid creatures. Not even Harpies foul their own nests!”

“But isn’t it better to try to understand-”

“Because everything would be comfortable then, wouldn’t it? No hard decisions to make... No - befriending Muggles isn’t going to make them stop breeding. But you don’t want to face the hard decisions, do you? You’re just as bad as all the other Muggleborn so-called wizards - you come here to escape your world and then you criticise us for trying to protect what we have.”

“I didn’t come here to escape-”

“But you were planning to stay, weren’t you? You’re all the same - you come here and take, take, take, but do you ever use that knowledge to go back and sort out your own problems? No, instead of being useful you stay and make things difficult for those of us who are working to keep us safe. _Muggle Protection Act_ indeed...”

“But we aren’t given the choice, are we? The Statute of Secrecy-”

“Would you take that choice, if I offered it?”

Yeah, right. As if he’s going to let me go home.

He looks at me from narrowed eyes, lines of thought etched across his brow.

“You say Dark Magic is dangerous, Miss Granger. There are risks, it is true - but those of us with the duty to protect our world have traditionally taken the risks upon ourselves. Some of us still do, even now, when most wizards despise us for it.”

So now he’s trying to make out that learning Dark Magic is part of some sacred duty? That the Death Eaters are really knights in shining armour?

_Pull the other one, Mr Malfoy._

“However,” he says, “the risks are nothing that can’t be managed by a properly trained wizard. Or witch.”

He’s watching me intently. I twist my hands together in the silence. Is he expecting me to say something?

“I thought as much,” he says at last, “despite your pretensions to rise above mediocrity. Too many let fear or prejudice stifle their magic... I would have expected a Mudblood to be free of the latter, at least. You disappoint me, Miss Granger.”

Oh, what’s he on about this time? I know his need to get at me is greater than his need to make sense, but this time I haven’t a clue what he wants. It’s not as if I don’t ‘disappoint’ him by existing.

And it’s not as if I care.

“Perhaps a little demonstration is called for,” he says. “Shall we proceed to the practical part of the lesson?”

He puts a small wad of black silk on the desk, exactly half-way between us.

I swallow. I don’t want to recognise it.

At a touch from his wand the material unfolds, spreading itself in a perfect square around the ring resting in its centre.

It is the same ring. The ring that took me to hell, the ring I picked up to seal my fate here. I’ll never forget the way those strange runes seem so darkly alive...

“Put it on,” he says.

But I’m frozen to the chair. I... I _can’t_. Not again. I mean, it’s not as if I can stop him doing anything he likes to me, but to walk into that room knowingly...

I tear my gaze from the ring. His lips twitch.

“Oh, there’s no need to look at me like that, little one. It’s not going to hurt, unless you want it to. I give you my word.”

Right. As if that means anything.

“Put it on. _Now._ ”

Every instinct says no, but his voice slices through them all and I find myself reaching out for the ring, picking it up and it’s oh, so cold, and I slip it onto my middle finger. And from somewhere deep within me there’s a silent _hooowl_ of terror and I try to pull the thing off and fling it across the room but I can’t move it at all and it’s cold and heavy on my hand.

I feel the same cold weight in my stomach.

“Stand up,” he says.

I do.

“Hold out your hand.”

I don’t need him to tell me he means the hand with the ring.

He taps the ring with his wand, once - and I am jerked off my feet and falling backwards over and over and over until my feet slam down on something solid and I lose my balance and fall to my hands and knees on...

I open my eyes, and close them. Everything’s still spinning. I feel sick.

_Where am I?_

Fear lances through the nausea. I manage to open my eyes again and look around.

It’s green, but this time it’s not a lawn but a carpet, with a curving pattern woven in silver thread.

Oh, how very original.

A _crack_ behind me makes me jump.

“Get up,” he says.

He catches my elbow as I stumble. Then he lets go, as if he’s been stung. I just about manage to stay upright.

“Just in case you get any clever ideas,” he tells me, “you should know that the window is protected by an Unbreakable Charm. And that in any case the ring will not let you leave the room.”

I glance around. So this is his study - I suppose. Every wall is lined with books and neatly piled scrolls, the lines of shelves broken only by a polished wooden door, a lacquered cabinet on the other side of a huge desk, a yawning fireplace and a large window that frames a lake and a wooded shoreline on the opposite bank.

He turns his back on me and strides to the cabinet. I glance to my left, trying to make out the titles of the books beside me.

I’d expected them to be all obscure Dark Arts books, but they aren’t. The nearest are reference books: the _Floo Directory_ , _Apparator’s Atlas_ and a bound collection of _Magical Mappa Mundi_. Then there’s a copy of _An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe_ , a slim book entitled _Governing for Greatness_ and even _Hogwarts: A History_.

I long to take it off the shelf, but I daren’t. Just to lose myself in a familiar book... I suppose it’s less than a week since I last saw a book but it feels like much longer, and anyhow Thanatonic Magic is so full of strange equations, it hardly counts as reading.

I look at the shelf above. Another familiar book: Bathilda Bagshot’s _History of Magic_. But beside it...

It can’t be.

There’s a thud from across the room.

I look up. He’s just put something on the desk, but I can’t see what it is. He’s watching me, his mouth twisted in amusement.

“Yes, Miss Granger,” he says, “that is Madam Wenlock’s _Triskaidekology_.”

But...

Bridget Wenlock may be famous for her _Septimal Studies_ \- Professor Vector let me borrow her copy, though we don’t study it until sixth year - but her work on the number thirteen is barely hinted at in the textbooks. It’s not fair. There can’t be more than five copies of that book in the whole of Europe - how come _he_ gets to have one?

“You’ve read it?” I ask.

“What, you think I just keep it there to impress visitors? Of course I’ve read it!”

I look at the floor, then up at the gilded spine.

“Yes,” he says sharply, “it is one of the original copies, albeit re-bound by my grandfather. And no, I don’t want you to touch it.”

He flicks his wand. I duck instinctively but the ropes flying from the end of his wand wrap round me, binding my arms tightly to my sides. It’s surprisingly hard to recover my balance when I can’t move my arms, and for the second time I fall onto the carpet. He smirks at me from across the room.

“But... I wasn’t going to.”

“Hmm.” He turns away and leans over the desk. I struggle to a sitting position, but I still can’t see what he’s doing.

Tears prick my eyes, and I can’t even wipe them away. And it’s stupid, because when has he ever been fair, but... I wouldn’t have tried to touch his book. Why did he think I would?

_And since when did it matter what he thinks about you?_

It’s like when he cast Imperius on me yesterday, and I wanted him to be _pleased_ with what I was doing.

Oh God.

There’s no point in thinking like that, there isn’t. He’s not going to like me any better if I do as he says, and if I start thinking he will, he’ll only use it against me. Lucius Malfoy is nothing but a manipulative bully - all he wants is to make me suffer.

“I’m ready now, Miss Granger,” he says. “Come here.”

There’s a note of something... reluctant in his voice, but I don’t have time to ponder it. It’s hard enough just getting off the floor when I can’t push myself up with my arms. It takes a lot of twisting and kicking, which he watches with his arms folded and a smirk plastered across his face.

Bastard.

I’m blushing as I walk to the desk. I’m not sure why, it’s just that, well, I can’t move my arms, can’t even pretend I could defend myself...

I’m glad he mended my robe. Not that I really think he’d do anything, not in broad daylight. But.

I stop in front of him, but he beckons me closer. I dig my fingernails into my palms and step up to the edge of the desk. He’s standing to my left, his arm not quite touching mine. I resist an urge to shuffle to the right.

There’s a black stone bowl on the desk, wide and shallow with runes inlaid in silver around the edge. The dark orange substance inside glows and sparks.

No, it’s not a substance, exactly. The flickering is all underneath the surface, as if I’m watching it on a television screen.

I close my eyes. I know what the thing is now, and I daren’t look - he’ll kill me if I do.

_So why is he showing you?_

I look up at him. His face is taut.

“Don’t look at _me_ ,” he snaps. “Are you so afraid to face the truth?”

I look down at the Pensieve, but I can’t see what he wants me to look at. A few shadowy figures around the edge... a black fog that shifts, obscuring one part of the scene and then another... and that odd flickering light. I can’t focus on anything.

And then I feel his hand at the back of my head, twisting in my hair, forcing me closer so I can see smoke and fire and chaos, and I try to pull away but he holds me there and bends down so that his face is next to mine.

“That’s right, Hermione,” he hisses in my ear, “all the way in, now.” And he pushes my face into the bowl.

I pitch forward, spinning and spinning as if I’m being sucked down a plughole. _I’m going to be sick..._ There’s no hand gripping my hair now, nothing at all to hold on to, no way even to reach out with my arms bound like this-

And I’m standing on solid ground.

And then I am sick, coughing and retching. I bend over but nothing comes out except a scream that rips through my head as if it will never stop. My stomach won’t stop heaving. It’s the smell: smoke and unwashed bodies and overlying it all a horrible stench that could almost be the neighbour’s Sunday barbecue but _isn’t_.

_Oh God, oh God..._

That screaming isn’t in my head.

I have to get out of here.

_How?_

What if he’s just going to leave me here, trapped in the sickest memory he could come up with?

I still can’t see anything clearly: it’s like stepping into Monet’s vision of hell. There are people, too many people, but when I try to look closely they’re a mass of featureless blobs, with only an occasional flash of white hair, a running sore, livid brown eyes, a toothless grin...

All these non-people are pushing, straining forward, and I can’t believe that no one’s noticed me, but I’m glad they haven’t because I still can’t move my arms. If I fall here I’ll never get up again. I edge backwards.

But everything is dark behind me, and it’s not the kind of dark that becomes lighter when you step into it, but black nothingness as if I’m standing on the edge of the world. I turn back towards the fire - but I refuse to look at it.

And then Lucius Malfoy is standing beside me. And he’s terrifying, swathed in ice and cloak and shadow, but he’s solid, not out of focus like everyone else, his pale face sharp in the orange glow. I never thought I’d be glad to see him.

He moves towards the fire, and I follow because he’s my only chance of getting out of here.

And he waits for me. He puts a hand on my shoulder and points into the crowd.

I think I see what he’s pointing at. A small figure pushing through the crowd, her dirty blonde hair obscuring her face. She’s dressed in the same coarse, dirty workclothes as everyone else: all that distinguishes her from the others is the clear edge of her silhouette.

She’s moving to the left, not towards the fire but around it, blending into the background until I can’t make her out.

He makes no attempt to follow her. His hand on my shoulder propels me nearer the fire, where the crowd is denser and so is the smoke and the stench and the shoving - but somehow no one notices our passing.

I wish they would. I wish there was something to stop us. I don’t want to go any closer.

But he pushes me right to the front, where the horrible screaming mingles with the roar of the flames and the jeers of the crowd. And where I can’t avoid looking at the figure at the heart of the fire, bound like I am but blackened, twisted and not possibly alive... except that she’s moving. Please God let that be because of the logs shifting underneath.

The screaming isn’t coming from the fire, I realise. It’s coming from behind the fire. And the head of the one in the fire lolls towards us and... and... that empty mouth... oh God...

I look away, stumble backwards. Straight into _him._

He catches me round the waist, holding me tight with his left arm. His right hand comes up underneath my chin, forcing my head up towards that living nightmare in front of me.

“Look, damn you,” he mutters. “Do you think I enjoy coming here?”

His voice is harsh, some of the words catching in his throat: so here is one scene of horror that he can’t look on dispassionately.

The thought brings me no satisfaction.

I can’t look away. I could close my eyes but that would be an insult to the figure in the flames, to whoever is screaming so incoherently over _there_. But I can’t see anyway, not because of the shifting focus but because of the tears rolling down my cheeks.

But it’s only my eyes that are crying. The rest of me is swamped with horror, cold sick shock frozen in every pore.

“Seen enough?” he murmurs in my ear.

“Yes,” I gulp, nodding as much as I can with him holding my head.

“So did _she_ , but she never had the option of leaving. No Flame-Freezing Charm here. Do you think those screams are faked?”

I shake my head.

_But..._

“It’s not real. It can’t be.”

“What do you mean, ‘it’s not real’? Would you like to be next?”

I close my eyes. I’m so close against him, he must be able to feel me shaking. I can’t believe he said that. It’s so _sick_... and it’s not fair.

“If it’s real, how can it be in your memory?”

“How can you ask such trivial questions while you’re watching someone being burnt alive!”

_Because anything’s better than thinking about that._

And it’s not real, it’s not happening, or if it is real it’s not happening _now_ and anyhow it’s too blurred to be real, the only thing that’s real here is him and me. And I don’t look, though I listen, and I pray for her to die quickly and oh God for him to take me away from here.

The screaming stops.

I shudder.

“Oh, you shouldn’t worry about that,” he says quietly into my ear.

_Bastard._

“What?” he snaps. “You think they didn’t want to stop screaming? You think they’d have preferred to wait for their turn in the flames? They were grateful for the gift of death, you may depend upon it... But of course, _you_ don’t think anything justifies the use of Dark Magic, do you?”

There’s angry shouting now from the other side of the fire. I can’t make out the words, but the crowd is shifting, taking up the cry in a babble of disjointed syllables that are completely foreign to anything I’ve heard before.

“Time to move on,” Lucius Malfoy says. “I have no wish to endure a crowd of rioting Muggles.”

And hell freezes...

I flinch as the frigid air and furious screaming swallow us like an Engorged banshee ghost. Everything stinks of cow.

He’s still holding me. I grip his arm, eyes shut tight.

But this is just memory, not some supernatural horror. And afterwards he’ll expect me to have seen... whatever it is. And I can’t stand not _knowing_...

It’s hard to make it out at first - to make _them_ out, the woman and two, no three, men struggling at our feet in a heap of mouldy straw, their torch-thrown shadows writhing on the soot-stained stone walls like twisted monsters.

_Oh. Oh God-_

She... she’s a witch. It’s obvious, but I don’t know why. Her blonde hair is streaked with dirt and her robe could just as well be a dress, but there’s something in the way she’s fighting, flinching from hands that are nowhere near her. Even while she’s struggling she seems almost regal.

The men are animals. That’s the worst of it, well not the _worst_ but it’s horrible; their expressions tell me they’re swearing but all I’m hearing is grunts and gibberish. They’re repulsive, ugly brutes. They should be put down.

 _Why’s he just standing there? Why doesn’t he_ do _something?_

Because he can’t. He’s as powerless as me, here.

Well, not quite as powerless. At least he’s able to leave.

I turn my head away and my nose brushes his cloak. The clean scent gives me a blessed moment of relief. Not _safe_ , but...

But I have to look, don’t I? That’s what the bastard wants, for whatever twisted reason of his own. He’ll probably quiz me later.

_This is sick._

There’s a thud. The walls shudder.

I hadn’t noticed the door before, but it’s gaping open behind the people on the floor. And standing in the doorway-

It’s, it’s _him_. And he’s looking as angry as I’ve ever seen him.

_Oh God, what if he catches me here?_

I shrink back - but _he_ is holding me firmly.

_For God’s sake, Hermione! Stop being hysterical!_

It’s just another memory, isn’t it? So he _can_ be there and behind me as well...

The wizard in the doorway has his wand pointed straight at us, his lip curled in disdainful fury.

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

I shriek, I can’t help it. Twisting round to bury my head in his cloak is all I can do to get away.

All is green, tinged with darkness... but I’m still here, and he’s still here with his hand holding my head against his chest as if his arms alone can protect me from the curse.

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

Not that he’d ever really mean to protect-

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

And silence.

_Get a grip, Hermione._

It’s only a memory. What can he think of me, trembling like this?

But it’s one thing to know the words, another to hear them pronounced calmly and carefully in a classroom, and quite another to hear it for real... How did Harry stand it, in the graveyard?

The Lucius Malfoy holding me tenses. Then he shoves me away.

_A bit late to play the ‘Don’t touch’ game, don’t you think?_

I don’t move. I daren’t. I don’t want him to punish me for my reaction.

_Or his._

Yeah, right. I must be losing it.

And I can’t afford to lose it. So I concentrate hard on what’s going on in front of me.

The three men lie motionless, untouched except by that force of will that ripped away their souls. It makes me shiver, but I force myself to look. Wasn’t I just thinking that they deserved to die for what they did, for what they _were_? Not that I meant it, of course, but they-

_No one deserves that._

But I’m in someone else’s memory. This happened goodness-knows-how-long ago, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

The Lucius Malfoy in the memory comes towards us. For an instant the woman looks terrified at the sight of his wand and his cold expression, but as he crouches down beside her the torchflame lights up his face and-

He cares about her. I don’t know how I know that - there’s no expression on his face, not exactly, but his expressionlessness seems less rigid, somehow.

And he isn’t Lucius Malfoy.

He’s about twenty years younger, for one thing, but it’s not that - after all, people have to be younger in memories. But the face is rounder, without _his_ severe pointiness, and his robes - not that I’ve ever wasted my time worrying about fashion, but they look like they’ve been taken from the pages of _Hogwarts: A History_ , and not in the last hundred years, either.

He stands up and turns around, gazing at each of the battered wooden tools leaning against the wall. It’s like something out of a folk museum, but not as clean... But when I try to look more carefully I can’t see the details. It’s not just the light, I’m sure of it.

I blink. And blink again.

I still can’t focus on the walls, but the young wizard’s face is clear enough - he’s making a furious attempt to control himself, fusing his rage and disgust into a glare that could burn, more savagely alive than Lucius Malfoy’s iciness will ever be.

 _I wonder what_ he _looked like at that age?_

It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t be seeing this.

There’s a sickening crunch as a pitchfork thuds through the chest of one of the dead men. A pool of red wells up and oozes down through the straw.

“I’ve always thought that was a particularly nice touch,” Lucius Malfoy murmurs in my ear.

_Sick._

And there must have been some wand-movement from the wizard - though I didn’t see anything - because suddenly the room is alive as heavy cudgels spin crazily through the air and the straw erupts in a cloud of filth. When it settles, there’s a rock lying beside the mashed skull of another of the men. The third man is half-buried in the straw - and the witch and wizard have vanished.

 _He_ hasn’t, though. He twists his hand in my hair and tugs me backwards. For a moment I’m floating - and then I’m leaning against his all-too-solid desk blinking against the too-bright daylight.

_I’m going to be sick._

“That, Miss Granger, is real history,” he says. “Shall we review the lesson?”

“I’m going to be sick...”

He makes an angry snort and pushes me towards a bookcase. With a flick of his wand it swings open to reveal gleaming white tiles beyond.

“If you’re going to be sick,” he snarls, “be sick in there!”

He shoves me forwards and I fall through the doorway and my hand catches on an invisible razor-edge as if _there’s a blade slicing through my finger_ splitting me atom from atom with pure sheet-lightning _agony_ that echoes in a _SCREAM_ that must be mine.

He hauls me back and the pain vanishes. I sink to the floor, sobbing. I daren’t look at my hand.

_Get up, Hermione! Grit your teeth and do it before he lashes out at you!_

But he seems to be ignoring me. Between my shuddering breaths I can hear him walking away and his wand tapping at the Pensieve.

_You have to look..._

I peep at my hand. I’m half expecting it to be covered in blood, but it isn’t. I try to look more closely, though it’s difficult to see properly with my arms still bound to my sides. There isn’t even a mark where it hurt so badly... unless there’s something underneath the ring.

I bite my lip. I don’t want to take the ring off, just slide it up a little. He can’t punish me for that, can he?

_Yes._

But it won’t budge anyhow. I look at the doorway, but there’s nothing unusual about it. Apart from there being a bathroom hidden behind a bookcase, that is. Lucius Malfoy’s Chamber-pot of Secrets: typical of his cleanliness hang-up. I wouldn’t be surprised if the secret room under the drawing-room floor turned out to be a jacuzzi.

Okay. At least the pain seems to have wiped out the nausea. I’d have preferred him just to heal me, though.

Sometimes it really is difficult not to hate him.

The bookcase swings closed. He’s coming back.

I look down at my finger as he crouches down in front of me.

“Ah, yes,” he says quietly. “I did tell you that you couldn’t leave the room. Perhaps I shouldn’t have set the boundaries so tightly.”

So it was the ring...

I’m struggling to wrench it off before I realise I’m doing it. He covers my hand with his.

“I think not,” he says. “Not now that you know the consequences.”

I bow my head. I can’t look at him.

He removes his hand from mine. “But we’re not here to discuss my personal security arrangements,” he says. “We were speaking of the wizarding community’s lack of them. I trust you see now why they are needed?”

No. I don’t know what he thinks he’s proved. He could have made me see anything in that Pensieve, couldn’t he?

He curls a finger under my chin to force me to look up. I fight against the urge to back away.

“In my ancestors’ time,” he says, “the Knights of Walpurgis were respected for what they did. Now they tell lies about history and teach their children to hate us.”

There’s a bitter edge to his voice, as if he actually believes what he’s saying. As if for once he’d prefer to convince me than taunt me.

In which case I’d better show willing. I might learn something about him, at least, even if it’s only what sort of lie he chooses to tell me.

“But...” I say, hoping that I’m right and he’s not going to hex me for asking, “wouldn’t ‘they’ say the same about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I know the History books aren’t... complete - but how do I know that what you’re saying is any more, well, reliable?”

He stares at me. “Do you not _realise?_ ”

I guess the answer to that one would be ‘no’. Why is he looking so shocked?

“ _History_ can be falsified,” he says. “Memories can only fade... no matter how hard we try to preserve them intact.”

But... is he really saying...?

“You mean those were real memories?” _But that makes no sense._ “Whose?”

“Mine. In a manner of speaking.” He smirks.

So he’s back to getting at me again, proving his superiority to himself if no one else. Should have known it was too good to last.

“Oh, come on, Miss Granger,” he snaps. “Do I have to explain everything to you? What we just saw were my memories of my father’s memories of his father’s memories... and so on. Memories passed down since the times when witches and wizards were respected for rescuing victims of Muggles savagery - no matter how they did it!”

So he’s immersed me in the collective memory of generations of Malfoys... God. I don’t _want_ their view of the world! I wish I could scrub it from my mind.

_That would explain the blurriness, though. If each person focuses on slightly different aspects of the memory, then over time only the most important details remain clear..._

Thank God for my analytical side. Figuring out the ‘how’ is far more comfortable than thinking about the ‘what’.

But his eyes are like diamonds drilling into my soul and all I can think of is, _How many people outside the family have seen that memory?_ I have a feeling that the answer is ‘not many’, if anyone. And I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“So has Malfoy... I mean Draco... I mean-”

“Of course. You don’t think we’d let him go off to school without knowing the truth?”

“You... You made a child see that?”

“I was nine when my father showed me.”

That’s horrible. When I was nine my parents were showing me daffodils in the Lake District.

“It is necessary for someone to remember,” he says quietly. “You’re aware, I’m sure, that most victims of the so-called witch burnings were Muggles - most real witches knew how to conceal themselves. But that only meant that the few who were caught were those too young or weak to manage a non-verbal Flame-Freezing Charm. There was a thirteen-year-old daughter of the Black family- but I suppose you’re too squeamish to want to hear about that. Muggles! How could you possibly accommodate that sort of brutality?”

 _What?_ He’s just admitted that my ancestors are far more likely to have suffered from witch-hunts than his!

He raises an eyebrow. “At least Cruciatus is clean.”

_Not from this end, it’s not._

But I _don’t_ want to discuss Unforgivable Curses with him.

“Who was the woman you pointed out in the crowd?” I ask, to change the subject.

He frowns. “That you even have to ask should demonstrate the truth of what I’ve been telling you. Many witches and wizards owed their lives - or their deaths - to Evangelina Malfoy. And she paid a greater price than obscurity for it, as you saw for yourself.”

So it was she who killed the ones who were screaming behind the fire, to save them from a worse fate. And does he mean-

“You mean she was the one in the barn?”

“Yes.”

I shiver, whether at what she did, or what was done to her, or that it was done to _her_ I’m not sure.

“What happened to her, afterwards?”

He shrugs. “She lived. Had it not been her cousin who found her, she might have been killed for being with a Muggle. But we Malfoys protect our own. And she knew the law: she never married, of course.”

_Because- because of what those men did to her?_

“But-” I protest, “but it’s not as if she wanted to!”

“And that makes a difference?”

We stare at each other across an unbridgeable gulf of silence.

“I obviously don’t understand, do I?” he says softly. “And you want me to, don’t you? So now you can return the favour...”

He slides his hand under the rope at my waist, hauls me to my feet and leads me back to the-

_No._

I stop. The Pensieve is still on his desk, and it’s empty. And I don’t want to go anywhere near it.

He pushes me forward.

“Oh yes you will, little one,” he murmurs. “Fair’s fair, after all.”

_Since when have you ever been fair?_

His left arm snakes around my waist, pulling me back against him with my head under his chin. Just like in the memory, but far more real now that we’re alone in the pressing silence.

I can feel his chest move as he breathes.

“Relax,” he orders.

_Yeah, right._

“I’m disappointed,” he says. “You preach the need to understand our fellow... creatures, yet when the time comes to talk you never seem willing to-” and he traces the old scar from temple to chin with his finger as he whispers, “-participate.”

I shudder.

He chuckles. “Not to worry, Hermione,” he says. “Hypocrisy has always been an unsung Gryffindor trait. But I did think you wanted me to understand.”

_And I do - if it might make him see. But not this way._

“Ah, you always have to be in control of everything, don’t you?” he says. “Sometimes I wonder whether you’d really want to be rescued. Such an affront to your self-sufficiency, hmm?”

No. What does he think I am? What wouldn’t I give to see Ron and Harry bursting in here? We’re above ground now, someone _could_ get in...

There’s a light tap on my temple, and Ron’s face is swimming mistily in the Pensieve.

_No._

I try to pull away, but he’s holding me securely.

“The Weasley boy?” he muses. “Interesting. I thought it would be the Bulgarian.”

Viktor, who rescued me from the lake last year, who invited me to visit him, who swore solemnly that he’d always protect me if I needed him... if only Durmstrang had taught him a spell that could find me here!

And then I see us kissing, framed by the Hogwarts rose bower and the rim of the black stone basin.

I close my eyes. This is horrible. We weren’t really that awkward, were we?

I cast my mind back, trying to remember if he really put his hand _there_ , like _that_ \- but I can’t visualise it at all.

“Is that as far as you got?” he asks. There’s a sneer in his voice. “So much for the rumours... Or has there perhaps been someone who provoked a more enthusiastic response?”

I try to make my mind go blank, but his wand is stroking my temple again. I open my eyes and to my horror I see golden hair and a shimmying peacock quill, and Professor Lockhart’s all-too-perfect white teeth...

Silence.

I’m shrivelling up with shame.

“Dear me, Hermione,” he says slowly. “And I was beginning to think you might be taken seriously.”

“What?” I protest, humiliation stinging me into speech. “It’s not as if...”

_It’s not as if I fancied him._

But that would be a lie - a stupid, trivial lie, but no lie is trivial here. Not when my life depends on me telling the truth to myself.

“Not as if... what?” His draws his thumb along my jaw-line, but suddenly stops just short of my chin. “But your pathetic love-life is of no interest to me.”

“Then why are you looking?”

I feel him shrug. “It might be relevant.”

Relevant. Is there any point in asking?

“But perhaps not as relevant as your earlier history,” he goes on. “Why don’t you introduce me to your Muggle friends?”

I don’t have time to even think about resisting before he is drawing out images of Ms Jones’ book-lined classroom; of snooty Elisa making one of her stupid jokes about Tim’s glasses; of the class singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me when I was five; of the party in our garden that weekend, the pile of newly-unwrapped books and dolls, my Mum standing smiling in her summer dress next to the wooden slide she’d rented from the play-group...

I try to remember what books they were, but it’s an odd memory, that one - I know it more from the photos in the family albums than from the event itself. So it’s not surprising I’m drawing a blank.

“Is that your mother?” The question jerks me back to the present.

“Yes.”

“I thought as much. She was in the bookshop, wasn’t she, at Lockhart’s book-signing?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” He prods the silvery memories with the end of his wand, and my Mum smiles up at us from a different world.

“Of course, she and your father - I presume? - stood out like a couple of Augureys in a cageful of Fwoopers,” he says. “Such an ugly, awkward way to dress! But there... she’s almost pretty - for a Muggle.”

That’s- that’s my _Mum_ he’s talking about.

But I daren’t say anything.

“Did she always smile like that?” he asks.

What a stupid question! No one smiles all the time!

“It was a party,” I say.

“A party for you.”

“Yes.” This conversation is getting more bizarre by the minute.

“It seems a strange way to mark a birthday,” he says. “What about your relatives?”

What _about_ them? “Two of my cousins were there,” I say, warily. “And Gran came over for tea later.”

“Ah.”

Only he can put so much disapproval into one syllable. I wish I knew what he was being so disapproving of. Apart from my existence, that is.

“What did you do for...?” I trail off. I can’t ask him about it, no matter how curious I am. It’s too intrusive.

“For my fifth birthday?” He sounds more amused than offended - thank God.

But I don’t want to know. I feel myself blushing. This conversation is too... personal.

He shrugs. “It was just a normal birthday.” His tone is offhand, as if he’s thinking of something else. I don’t think it even occurs to him what an unhelpful answer that is. Does he mean ‘normal’ for wizards? For rich, pure-blood wizards? For Slytherins? I don’t remember reading anything, or hearing anyone at school talking about anything particular... but people don’t talk about things they take for granted, do they?

“What about your father?” he asks. “Was he ever angry with you?”

“I... I suppose. When I’d done something wrong.”

“Show me.”

How does such a quiet command completely bypass my will to resist? My memory immediately serves up the image...

Our living-room at home, with eight-year-old me sitting on the sofa and my Mum and Dad on the other two chairs. They always told me off together, so I couldn’t play them off against each other, but I see now that their faces show more disappointment than anger. Certainly nowhere near enough anger to justify my apprehension - but then I didn’t have any real fear to compare it with, not back then.

I’d set my cousin’s white rabbit free - well, the hutch _was_ far too small, I only wanted it to be free to run around. How was I to know it would disappear under the garden fence? But my Dad is solemnly telling me about how upset Alice is, as I sit twisting my hands in my lap. And then my mother says I have to put all my pocket money for the next two months towards a new rabbit for Alice and a run so it can exercise, and she asks if I think that’s fair and I’m nodding yes. And I did at the time, because I felt bad about making my cousin cry though I was still glad the rabbit had its freedom. Now, I’m not so sure. What had I done anyway? I can’t even remember, so it can’t have been that important. I was in the garden, but what exactly... What was it my Dad had said?

Hang on a moment...

There’s an image in the stone basin, a garden and a streak of white, my parents looking more disappointed than angry, though I’m looking terrified: my memory, but I can’t remember it.

No. _No._ He _can’t._

I blink. But it doesn’t help. There’s just black- no, there we are in the living-room. But I’m older than I am in the Pensieve - it’s not the same memory. I can’t recall the other one at all!

And I’d thought there was nothing left for him to take.

But now he’s extracting the day my Mum told me off for shouting at my cousin John - and _that_ was so unfair, I used to wish I could forget it. But it’s my Mum, and she cares about me, and memories are all I have to keep me going in this place, and _he has no right to it._

I won’t let him. _I do not want him to take this._

They made me apologise to John in the end. The image flows through my mind, and now I can’t remember what they said but I remember feeling it was so _unfair_ , because... because... if I concentrate really hard... I can see John looking really smug, and he’s saying that he’s _definitely_ not going let me have a go of his telescope now, and Yes! That was it! He wouldn’t let me look just because I was a girl, and I can remember exactly what I said to him!

There’s a sharp hiss from behind me, a muttered incantation and... Oh, _God_ , it’s as if there’s a red-hot wire pulling through my brain, pulling that memory out to a thin silver thread so smooth that I can’t keep a grip on it, no matter how much _I don’t want to lose it..._

I said... John said...

I cling to the image through the fierce-burning pain. But it’s hopeless. I can’t hold on and the more I try the more it hurts. My head...

I kick the desk.

My bare foot strikes it hard. The agony jack-knifes me forward but he hauls me back before I hit the Pensieve. My head clears for one glorious second and I twist to the side, _almost_ breaking his grip before he hooks his booted foot around my ankle. He pushes me forward. Red fireworks are exploding in my head...

Everything is red and silver mist, broken fragments of voice: _“but you know you shouldn’t ”_ “you’d only break-” _“Hey, Hermione, look at-”_ “I vill not forget-” _“Trying to distract me again, Mudblood?”_

But that last is real: I can feel his breath on my ear though his voice comes in a harsh growl that doesn’t sound like him at all.

I blink. The light bursts against my brain and dims to visibility. I can see shapes, green, the green leather surface of the desk that my cheek is resting on, the Pensieve looming two feet away...

I can’t lift my head - his hand’s twisted tight in my hair. I can’t push myself up, can’t reach the floor with my feet, can’t move at all, can hardly breathe under the weight-

I kick out - but he’s lying on me and no matter how much I struggle I can’t, I can’t-

“You _are_ trying to distract me, aren’t you?” He chuckles, his breath like maggots crawling on my neck.

And I can feel something, pressing against my back...

No.

His hand in my hair pulls back, slowly lifting my head. And then his face is beside mine, almost close enough for his cheek to touch my cheek and I squirm away and then our cheeks _are_ touching.

“It’s up to you, little one.” His free hand curls round my throat. “Did you really want to change the subject? Or shall we continue our original conversation?”

He strokes one finger up under my chin. I want to scream a protest, I want to keep stone-still, I _don’t_ want to give him the satisfaction of that helpless strangled moan...

“Hmm?” He’s almost _purring_ , the bastard. It’s horrible, he’s horrible, he-

He’s sounding like he did when I was stroking that snake, it seems ages ago now; when he _looked_ at me after he’d been gone for so long; when he was talking to Macnair; that first time he touched me, in the dark...

 _Very nice. Perhaps you did mean it after all, hmm?_  
Of course I missed you, little one. How could I not?  
Narcissa appreciates the... side benefits.  
This is what you dream about, in the darkest corner of your soul?

No. No no no no no. I don’t have to dwell on that. I know it’s there, maybe at some level I’ve known it’s there since he first threw me against the wall, or even since that day in the bookshop - but I also know he doesn’t really want to touch me.

_Which is why he’s lying on top of you._

He _won’t_ touch me. I’m a Mudblood, he can’t stand touching me. I’ll be safe if I don’t provoke him.

But that means...

That means I have to let him take what he wants. The memories, I mean.

_No._

But the alternative... that isn’t even a choice.

“What did you _want_ to talk about?” I make my tone light but I can’t quite hide the sting. His fingers tense on my neck - but then he lets go, pushes himself away.

Silence fills the room. I shift back, off the desk, and stand up straight.

“Books,” he snaps, making me jump. He pulls me back against him again, rests his chin on my head, lifts his wand...

_No, no. I can’t let him-_

But what else can I do?

I close my eyes.

“Let’s start with the book that brought you here, shall we?”

Well, I did agree to this...

So I let my mind drift back to that day in the library, the stupidest day of my life when I touched his cursed book. And I let the memory drift away along his wand, and I shouldn’t, it might be important, but what can I do? If I don’t let him take it...

“Ah, yes,” he says softly. “It’s your infatuation with books that brought your name to my attention, and what you got from those books that made you stand out from all the other common Mudbloods. And it was books that made our paths cross... didn’t you ever realise this was inevitable?”

And I let him draw out the memories of those times in Flourish and Blotts, his contempt for Ginny’s poor battered textbooks, the way he took control over- over _everything_ when he found me there last summer, the times since when an unexpected glimpse of Malfoy left me shaking...

As I’m shaking now. He must be loving this, the bastard.

“You’re so afraid of me, little one?”

 _Afraid?_ I’m not sure what ‘afraid’ means anymore, except that it’s _there_ , always, like being wrapped in a Lethifold...

“Ah.” He’s not even trying to hide his satisfaction. “And what have I done that makes you fear me so much?”

_Everything._

But... well, if he really wants to see that stuff, fine. Let him take it! It’s not as if it’s something I _want_ to remember.

The images come at random, and I fling them away, out along his wand. I don’t know if pushing makes it go any faster, but I don’t want to dwell on any of it - coming out of Imperius to find myself standing half-naked in front of him, when only half an hour before I’d been... I can’t remember, wherever he took me from; his cruel smile as he made me scream that first time when I still thought I could resist him, the second day when I was still pretending I could, that time he threw me against the wall again and again and pretending anything wouldn’t have made the slightest bloody difference. How many times did he almost kill me? That room beneath the tower... that horrible powder. His cold glee as he cut me, as he made me cut myself... Malfoy’s stupid torture lessons, and, oh God, Crookshanks... 

And he’s holding me more tightly now and I need him to because all that was bad enough the first time and it’s such a relief not to carry it any more that I actually laugh.

He lowers his head. His hair brushes my cheek; I can feel his breath on my ear. He must be able to feel me shivering.

And I can feel his breath again as he murmurs, “Crucio.”

No. Oh God no-

But there’s no force in it. It’s just the memory he’s invoking that’s filling my vision with fire and blood and dark blades that can cut flesh from bone but still leave me whole for more. And it’s just the memory that is screaming in my head so that I can’t hear anything beyond my plea to _stop, please stop-_

“Shhhh.”

I blink. Pensieve-me is staring up in uncomprehending horror. I can’t imagine what must have happened for her to look like that, but it must have been... I wish I could just hold her, tell her everything will be okay.

Is everything okay when you don’t know that it’s not?

A tear slides down my cheek. He wipes it away.

‘He’ is Lucius Malfoy, Draco’s father. I remember that much. But as for what I’m doing here with him, how I got here or especially why he’s holding me like this...

Nothing.

He lets go of me, stepping backwards so that I lose my balance and slump to the floor.

Well, he’s... one of _them_. I’d hardly expect him to be nice to me.

And I remember... but it doesn’t make sense. Disconnected images: smirks, sneers, spells and snatches of haughty lectures on magic wizarding history, punctuated by pain and separated by...

Nothing.

What the hell am I doing here?

He’s bending over the Pensieve. What does he want with-

It feels like he has half of me in there, and I daren’t look at the other half because, because it wasn’t _Obliviate_ that he used. There are too many holes, too many ragged edges and if I think about them at all they’ll start to join up in the wrong places.

He walks around to the other side of his desk, opens one of the cabinet doors, and flicks his wand.

But...

_He can’t!_

I must have gone whiter than the white witch of frigging Narnia, but there’s nothing I can do but watch as the Pensieve rises and floats towards the cupboard. He closes the door behind it and taps once with his wand. An invisible lock clicks into place.

“What are you doing!” The question wells up and bursts out before I can stop it.

He smiles. “Keeping my Pensieve safe until I can peruse its contents in private. I’d have thought you’d approve of that.”

“But those are _my memories!_ ”

_Not so hysterical, Hermione. It won’t help..._

His smile fades.

“No, Hermione,” he says. “You belong to me, remember? So your memories also belong to me. They are mine, for me to use as I see fit.”

There’s something deeply wrong with that statement. I wish I could put my finger on exactly how... but any argument I could use is probably locked up in that cabinet.

“Mr Malfoy. Please...”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Please, give them back. _Please_.”

Okay, so I’m begging. So what? How can I maintain any semblance of integrity if he can take, take-

_Oh God. Don’t let him do this._

“Well, well,” he says quietly. “What a transformation. I find your new attitude most... gratifying. I might even consider your request.”

But... by the time he’s ‘considered’ it...

“But the longer you keep them separate, the more...” I gulp back a sob, I can’t bear it but he _has_ to believe me.

“Don’t try to lecture me!” he snaps. “Do you dare to suggest I don’t know the consequences of a spell I cast?”

“But they won’t be any use to you if they’re not connected-”

“They’re absolutely no ‘use’ to me in your head if you refuse to co-operate!”

But I don’t know _how_ he wants me to co-operate!

He’s glaring down at me, and it’s terrifying and I wish I knew exactly why.

Did I know? _Do_ I know? But if I follow my memories too close to the holes he’s left, they might start to close and then I’ll be left with wrong connections and no room for the real memories when he gives them back.

If he gives them back.

_Don’t think about that. He can’t, he can’t..._

I’m adrift in a sea of confusion and fear with nothing to hang on to, nothing to point the way forward. All I have is... me - or what he’s left of me - and him. And from the way he’s looking at me, I’m not sure he knows where we’re going either.

“Why am I here?” I ask.

He crouches down in front of me. I can’t read him.

Could I ever read him?

He slides two fingers under my chin and strokes his thumb slowly along my jawline. And a shiver deep in my gut tells me that he’s done that so many more times than I can recall...

What does he want from me?

“You’re here,” he says quietly, “because you came looking for knowledge you couldn’t find anywhere else.” He locks his gaze onto mine, and again I _recognise_ it more than I can remember it. And it doesn’t feel right - but it doesn’t feel entirely wrong, either.

I wish I knew what he wanted.

_Do you really?_

I don’t know. I don’t know.

But I know I won’t know anything until I get those memories back.

“Please,” I try again. “I’ll do-”

_Selling your soul to the Devil?_

I’ll worry about that when I can remember what I have to worry about.

“Yes?” he says.

I focus on his sleeve, on the floor, anything to avoid looking at his face. “I don’t know what you want,” I mumble, “but I can’t do it if I can’t think properly.”

“Ah, but would you, if you could?”

“Yes.” And I meet his eyes, and I shiver. He smiles.

“You expect me to believe that?”

_“Please.”_

He pulls his hand away from my chin. “I’ll think about it.”

“But-”

But he taps his wand on the ring, and I’m spinning back into the dark.


	17. Respect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione wants her memories back. Lucius only wants respect.  
> Or does he?

I'm trying to think, but the black holes in my mind suck every thought into nothing. Even the most innocent things... Did Malfoy's father really take memories of my primary school? Why?

But that's the least of the questions that yesterday I might have known the answers to. How, when, why did I come to be here? What does he want from me?

Maybe I could work it out, if only I knew what he's taken... But there's no point in trying to go down that road. This place, this darkness, this smell of dust and damp stone and fear - these I remember. There are flashes of light, too - a small stone room with a desk and a chair and a bed, and always _him_ : sitting, standing, sneering, holding my chin with his fingers so I can't avoid his cold and empty eyes.

But if I follow those images I'm pitched into dizzying darkness. And if I cross those boundaries too often they might close over so nothing will fit properly...

So I try to think of something familiar, mundane. Hundreds of lessons, hours of Potions, Charms, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and a golden chain that flipped me through time in a way that seems almost normal compared to the disorientation I'm feeling now.

It works, as long as I concentrate on the details: the bare facts but not how they fit together, the theories but not the applications. It's more difficult than I'd ever have imagined, not to jump along those shimmering connections that should give information meaning but now just as often leave me hanging in space... Charms connects to a tangled blue glow that truncates to darkness, Transfiguration to a flashing knife that cuts out all reference to itself, History to Mr Malfoy wielding his wand and his sneer from the other side of a desk, and a blur of fire and stink and screaming that wasn't mine to remember anyway.

Perhaps it's safer to wonder about the future after all. Or to focus on the present... like how much my arms are hurting, bound by my side for God knows how many hours. Like how the hell he expects me to go to the loo like this...

Thinking about that isn't particularly helpful, either.

One thing I do remember clearly: the look on his face as his wand touched my hand to hurl me back here, his chin raised so he could peer down with that disdainful curl to his lip... contempt, I suppose. I was bothering him so he sent me away - I don't count for anything.

But in that case, why am I here?

I can't even try to guess. All I can do is wait.

.

It's no easier when he finally appears. 

We stare at each other in silence: me sitting on the bed, him standing by the desk with a thin black book in his black-gloved hands. He's looking at me as if he's trying to work something out.

What does he know about me that I don't?

The strange thing is, it feels so familiar. Have I looked at him this way before, tried to figure out what he's thinking from the slight purse of his lips and the twitch in his cheek? And if so, was I more successful than I am now?

"Have you forgotten everything, Miss Granger?"

Well, he knows the answer better than I...

"Stand up when I'm speaking to you!"

I'm on my feet before I have time to think about it, as if he's got a direct line into my brain. This isn't me - I should be indignant, angry, as coldly contemptuous as he is...

_What has he done to me down here?_

He pulls out his wand and walks towards me.

I step backwards; the backs of my legs press against the bed. He glances down at the ropes round my waist, raises his wand. Then he lowers it.

"Maybe not," he murmurs.

And his wand is pressing up under my chin, forcing me to look up into those pale grey eyes.

I swallow.

He's done this before, I feel it.

"So," he says quietly. "Am I really to believe that the games have come to an end?"

What games?

And, more to the point, what _end_?

He frowns. "Didn't you tell me you were ready to co-operate?"

My instinct is to look at the floor, but with his wand under my jaw I'm forced to say it to his face.

"What do you want me to do?"

The corners of his mouth twitch. I wouldn't call it a smile.

"Sit down, Miss Granger, and I'll tell you."

He points at the desk. I have to turn my back on him to get to it, and I have to kick the chair out from the desk before I can sit there. It shrieks against the floor.

I wish he'd untie my arms, but I have a feeling that asking wouldn't get me very far.

I fight down an irrational stab of panic as his boots click against stone. But I manage to be almost impassive as he leans on the desk, gloating over me with the smuggest smile I've ever seen plastered across his face. The smuggest smile I can remember seeing, that is.

He places his book on the desk. _The Black Book of Binding_ , according to the cover.

"Your first task, Miss Granger, is to read for me."

Somehow I don't think he means for me to tuck him up in bed with _Goldilocks_ and a mug of cocoa.

He's watching my expression. "You're more wary this time, I see. But there's nothing to worry about - this time you're not going to be touching it, and I'm not going to be looking at it."

He takes off his right glove.

God only knows what he's going on about. He's shown me the book before, I suppose, but forgotten that he's made me forget.

Does that mean it's something I should be afraid of, or is it something that can save me?

He opens the book, his gaze fixed on me. "Tell me when I get to Chapter Twelve."

I watch as the chapter titles flip past. "There," I say quietly.

At the top of the page, in twisting black script, is written _Chapter Twelve: House-Elf Enslavement_. Immediately underneath, a picture of a House-Elf tries to back off the page.

This is sick.

The House-Elf contorts in a silent scream... but it's a picture, just an image, the pain isn't real and he ordered me to read, and if I don't I won't get my memories back and what good can I do for House-Elves then?

I force myself to scan the clipped précis of the differences between 'animate and inanimate objects'. Then I look up at him.

He turns the page.

This is knowledge I do not want. How will he expect me to use it?

_A beast or a lower-order being can be effectively Bound by fear. It was Clarinda the Cruel, in 981, who first perfected the technique of infusing fear into a basic Ownership Brand. However, as fear is an instinct that can be triggered by a range of stimuli, a deeper Binding is required if specific personal loyalty is to be assured._

Horrible. No wonder poor Winky was so distraught last year.

I read on. It tells me how the Binding process developed to tap into the Bound creature's needs for security and belonging. It's fascinating, in a twisted sort of way - is this the key to freeing the House-Elves from their so-called contentment with their slavery? My mind races ahead of the words, frantically figuring how the process might be reversed. When I reach the end of the next page I nod - then look up at him in panic. What will he do to me for that presumption?

But he simply smirks, and turns the page.

This is strange... as if he is my hands and I am his eyes.

His fingertips press down on the book so hard, his nails show white. 

"Read." His command grates through gritted teeth.

There's a faint prickle up my spine. I ignore it, and bend closer to the book.

The next subheading reads: _Practical Punishment_.

I really don't want to read this.

But the words on the page beckon, luring me in to their discussion of the best methods of instilling discipline, of how to inflict punishment that reinforces rather than destroys the Bound Elf's feeling of security, of how to nurture an instinct for self-punishment. There's something important here, I feel it; if only I could turn the pages for myself...

He snaps the book shut. I blink up at him.

He frowns, tucking the book under his arm. His wand is in his hand. I flinch away as he raises it-

The ropes disappear from around my waist. I rub my arms; for a minute I am aware of nothing beyond the agony of returning blood.

And then I see my left arm.

There's a wide white scar running from my elbow almost to my wrist. And I know it wasn't there before. What has he done? What _else_ has he done?

It's... it's had time to heal. _How long have I been here?_

I stare at him in horror. He raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, Miss Granger. You may be unusually intelligent for a Muggleborn, but some lessons take a long time to sink in."

I...

His fingers close around my wrist; he lays the end of his wand across my fingers. I bite my lip, waiting for my hand to burn or bleed or in some other way change.

But nothing happens.

I glance up at him. His mouth is set in a small superior smirk.

He gives the silver ring on my finger a sharp tap, and suddenly it seems too heavy, too cold, its runes too darkly twisting... and then the runes vanish and the ring is dull and loose on my finger. He pulls the ring from my hand and points to the bathroom.

"Go do what you have to do."

I scurry to the door, push it closed behind me, reach the loo and close my eyes in relief. I'm shaking.

I lean on the sink for a moment before I wash my hands and splash water on my face. When I look up I jump back in fright.

There's someone in here with me!

I spin round. The room is empty. But I saw...

_Blimey, Hermione. You really are losing it._

My reflection.

Except it's not me, it's a hideously distorted version of me. Of course Malfoy's father wouldn't keep a normal mirror in his dungeon.

I steel myself for another look. I wouldn't have recognised myself. Well, I didn't, did I? I mean...

I lean my forehead against the glass. The girl in the mirror does the same. It's horrible - pinched face, straggly hair, hideous scar down one cheek. I touch my own cheek where the reflected scar would be - and turn cold as I realise that the skin does feel different. I close my eyes, try to follow the ridge with my finger. When I look again, my finger is still on the scar in the reflection.

It's not the mirror he's distorted, it's me.

_Right, Hermione. And the only hope you've got of fixing that is to get him to give your memories back._

But I'm not sure I want to remember how I got that scar. Isn't it better not to know?

_Not if you want to get out of here._

I straighten up, and open the door.

He's still standing behind the desk. His hand is resting on a piece of parchment; beside it is a quill and inkwell.

He's put his glove back on.

"Ready, Miss Granger?" He smiles. "Good. It's time for you to start earning your keep. I've borne the expense of keeping you safe for long enough."

_Safe?_ I glance at my arm.

He shrugs. "Well. I can't protect you from your own wilfulness, can I?"

He's still smiling as he waves me to the chair. I sit, fixing my gaze on the quill. I can't look at him: something in that smile is making my flesh creep, and I'm not sure if it's something I remember or something I don't.

"I hope you took in everything you read just now," he says. "Because your next task is to summarise it."

I look at him. "Summarise Chapter Twelve?"

Like being back at school. Essay writing I can do.

"Summarise Chapter Twelve," he echoes. "In Dolohovian notation, please. With specific reference to Hagalaz Fields. For the purpose of the exercise you can assume the House-Elves are human."

With particular reference to _what_?

"No need to look at me like that," he says. "And you needn't pretend you don't understand. I know I didn't take those particular memories."

I think back. Hagalaz, Hagalaz... it translates as _hail_ , symbolic of destruction or catastrophic change - I remember that from school. But Hagalaz Fields? I can almost see a meaning, like a shadow on the edge of vision, but it fades away every time I turn towards it...

He frowns. "I thought you said you weren't going to be difficult."

"I'm not." My mind's on the problem, not on him. If I assume he's telling the truth - big assumption, I know, but it's all I have to work with - he really expects me to know about Hagalaz Fields, or whatever they are, either because he saw it in my memories or because it's something to do with what's happened down here. And if it's true that he didn't take that memory out of my head, then it must be in there, somewhere...

But I can't find it. Perhaps that's the problem - having a memory stored is one thing, retrieving it is quite another. If he's taken away the links to those memories, I won't be able to access them.

And if I can't get to them I can't do what he wants and he'll think I'm trying to spite him and he won't give me my memories back-

_Don't panic. Think._

But I can't help it. Is this what it's like for people who can't do exams?

Though most exams aren't set by people who've just sucked all the relevant knowledge out of your head.

I have to try to explain. It's all I can do.

"Mr Malfoy?"

"Hmm?"

"I- I can't remember anything about Hagalaz Fields. If you really want me to do this, you'll have to give me some memories back."

He folds his arms. "Oh no, Miss Granger, I'm not playing that game. Why should I go to the trouble of restoring your memories before you've convinced me you're willing to put them to use?"

"But I _can't_! It's not that I don't want to..."

He looks at me, eyes narrowed. Then he shrugs, and picks up the parchment. "Have it your way."

He turns his back on me. And that dismissal kills any hope I had of a future. What's he going to do: just leave me down here, mindless?

"All right," I say desperately. "I'll try."

He looks around, one eyebrow arched. He holds my gaze for a moment, then shakes his head as he hands me the parchment.

"You've lost your fire, Hermione." 

_Isn't that what you wanted?_

Never mind that. I have to focus on doing the impossible.

Maybe if I ignore Hagalaz Fields for the moment, and just try transcribing the House-Elf information into runic equations? He seems to have left me most of my Hogwarts memories, at least, and perhaps using those will lead me to the right place.

But 'just transcribing' the information is easier said than done. I'm wasting too much of the parchment crossing things out, and the way he's sitting back and watching me with that sickly superior little smile isn't exactly helping.

_Ignore him._

But it's all too easy to let my mind skitter away from the Arithmancy. Codifying instructions for House-Elf enslavement is hardly my top lifetime priority, after all. And though I can construct runic expressions for fear and security and loyalty, I can't see how they connect. If only I could understand it! At least then I might be able to see how to reverse the process and make some good come from this...

Perhaps this mysterious Hagalaz Field of his is the link, then.

That doesn't help. Have I really done this before?

I try to work backwards. If Hagalaz can translate as reshaping, I can write it in as a transformative operation between the formulae I already have... But that's only naming the process, not explaining it. I'm missing something.

I can't see it. I stare at each quilled rune in turn, willing them to spark off the memory I need, willing the equations to resolve into meaning.

They don't. I can't do this.

I must be able to do it.

Not if he's deliberately set me something impossible. For all I know he's making the whole Hagalaz thing up.

Is he expecting me to fail? I glance in his direction, but I can't read him.

His lip curls as my gaze meets his. I duck back to the parchment - but he snatches it away and scans down my workings.

Then he tears the parchment end to end, and throws it to the ground.

"What nonsense is this?" he snaps. "I've already told you not to waste my time!" 

"I'm not! I am trying-"

"Did I ask you to _try_?" He stands, pushing back his chair. "No. I set you a task, and I expected you to complete it. But you couldn't even manage that one little thing. Or wouldn't!" He strides round the desk. "I've given you every chance, Mudblood! What do I have to do to get you to show some respect?"

He's standing over me, his eyes hard and glittering. I shrink back into the chair but there's nowhere to go. I'm shaking my head, I realise. He's looking murderous and I don't understand him at all.

"I couldn't!" I find myself speaking. "I mean, maybe I do have a memory about Hagalaz Fields, but I can't get to it if I can't remember anything it links to!" I'm babbling, he's raised an eyebrow in pretend disbelief, and in desperation I say, "Please! You don't understand-"

"Don't tell me what I don't understand!" Suddenly his hand is on my throat, pushing my head hard against the back of the chair.

I swallow. His eyes bore into mine. I can hear his breathing, loud and harsh.

I can feel my pulse, beating out under his fingers.

And then he smiles.

"Oh, I understand _you_ , little one. So willing to play reasonable when you want something, so full of petty defiance that you'll even go against your own interests to prove a point..."

He releases his grip on my throat, raises his hand to the scar on my left cheek and traces it with a finger.

I don't move.

He leans in, so close that I can feel his breath as he murmurs, "So, what is it that you want this time?"

"I..."

He's still smiling... I hate it. It's hard enough to guess what he's up to when he's frowning, but that smile is a mask that covers everything except its own falsity.

"Do you want to die?"

The question pins me like a poison arrow. But I manage to shake my head. An automatic answer. I'm not sure it should be.

"No," he says quietly. "I didn't think so. Which means we have a problem, you and I."

His gaze is locked on mine. I try to keep my expression blank.

"You say you want to live," he goes on, "yet every time I offer you a chance to make yourself useful you refuse. And as much as I've - enjoyed - our little sessions together, I cannot keep a useless Mudblood parasite forever."

I stare down at my hands. He wrenches my chin back up. I'm trapped. There's nothing I can say, nothing I can do...

"So, you're not even going to argue with me? What game are you trying to play, Miss Granger? Because it can't last for much longer."

That's so unfair! I'm not the one playing games! What does he _want_?

I breathe deep, trying for calm.

He's just looking at me, eyes narrowed.

And suddenly I find I can speak, as if the answer is written there in his gaze. I feel oddly peaceful - not trying to pierce the armour of his arrogance, not trying to defend myself, just stating the truth. There's nothing more I can do. Nor anything less.

"I was telling the truth, Mr Malfoy. I can't remember anything about 'Hagalaz Fields'. I can't make things join up in my head. And if I try too much, if I force memories to join up where they shouldn't, then the other memories won't fit. And then I won't be able to think properly, and I won't be any use to you anyway. Is that really what _you_ want?"

For a moment I'm sure he's going to hit me. But then he chuckles.

"Bravo, Miss Granger. You're starting to think like a Slytherin. Do go on."

I don't want to think like a Slytherin.

_Oh, for Heaven's sake! You want your memories, your mind, your_ self _back, don't you?_

And it's not about me at all. When it comes down to it, this is all about him.

"It's up to you, Mr Malfoy. I told you I'd do as you ask if you gave me back my memories, and I- I meant it. I can't make you believe it, but whatever it is you want me to do, you need to give me back my memories if you want me to do it."

This isn't negotiation - I have nothing to negotiate with. It's the simple truth. And the simple truth is that there's nothing I can do or say to persuade him.

Is that what he wanted me to admit?

He smiles. "Stand up."

I'm trembling slightly.

He points away from the desk. I walk across the room. He follows me.

Was that some kind of test?

And if it was, have I passed?

"Turn around."

I do as he says.

He looks at me, sweeping his gaze from my face to my feet. I stare straight ahead.

He paces round me; I can almost _feel_ him inspecting me from every angle.

I take a long, shaky breath as he stops in front of me.

"So," he says, "at last we're facing reality. No temper tantrums, no insults, no stupid pride. Just an acknowledgement of the way things are. Isn't that so?"

I watch him warily. "Yes." _If you insist._

"Yes _what_?"

I suppress a sigh. "Yes, Mr Malfoy."

He nods. "You know, I find that almost convincing."

What does he mean, _almost_?

"You see, Miss Granger, you present me with a dilemma. Let us say that I choose to believe that you truly cannot complete the task I set. Let us even say that you mean it when you say you would do it if I returned those memories to your empty little head. But how am I to know that, once I've gone to the effort of doing so, you won't go back on your word?"

He steps back, tilting his head to the side as he watches me. I frantically try to think of a response.

He raises an eyebrow. "That's right, Hermione. I have yet to see a demonstration of your good will."

I stare at him, bewildered. "But... I can't! That's the whole point of what I was saying!"

"Can't?" His mouth twitches. "I thought Gryffindors weren't allowed to give up that quickly."

"But I've _told_ you, I can't do it without my memories! Why can't you see?"

Because he refuses to see. He's just standing there, eyes narrowed, utterly implacable. Is he just going to abandon me here?

Any calm I felt crumbles under a flood of despair. I run at him - it's wild, stupid, but anything's better than just waiting for him to do his worst.

"What do you want?" My voice breaks. "Why don't you bloody well get on with it!"

He catches my wrists, holds me at arm's length.

And we stand there. I can't hear anything except my gulping breaths as I stare at the floor, struggling for control. A tear escapes, rolling down my cheek. He grips both my wrists in one hand, reaches up and wipes the tear away.

And the worst of it is that part of me longs to respond to that crumb of comfort, to reach out, to be held - even though I know he hates me and would throw my weakness back in my face.

I look up at him, and his face is so hard that it's all too obvious he doesn't care at all, and that almost starts the tears off again. I blink them back furiously.

When I look again, he's smiling - a smug, predatory smile. "What I want from you," he says quietly, "is respect." His voice hardens. "I thought by now I had made that abundantly clear."

Respect. How can I prove I respect him when I don't?

He lets go of me. I rub my wrists.

He tilts his head to one side as he watches me. "I want you to demonstrate that you can keep your word," he says slowly, "even when you hate yourself for doing it."

Those last words chill me to the bone. He's never been that... explicit before.

Or maybe he has. Maybe he's been playing this again and again and again.

_That's not helpful, Hermione. Think!_

But I can't. That's the whole sodding problem, isn't it?

His smile widens.

"And come to think of it," he says, "perhaps that little test I set you wouldn't have been sufficient after all."

I feel sick.

"I- I don't know what you mean."

He's still smiling. "Oh, little one - I think you do."

I stare at him.

_Oh no. Oh no no no no no no no._

My hands clench. I turn away.

A mistake.

His hand twists in my hair, and I'm staring at the ceiling unable to think of anything except the pain and the rough edges of the triangular piece of stone above my head.

"What's your problem?" he hisses. "Do you know how many of the highest-ranking witches in Britain have thrown themselves at my feet? And _you_ , a Mudblood, dare to turn your back on me?"

He... _What?_

I gasp out a reply. "Would they throw their daughters at your feet too?"

His fingers go rigid against my scalp. I don't dare breathe.

"Ah." He's speaking almost directly into my left ear. "But I don't know their daughters nearly as well as I know you, now, do I?"

He slides his left arm under mine and pulls me back, holding my body against his - just like when he was taking my memories. Suddenly the smell of him is overwhelming.

He's warmer than I remember.

I shiver. My mind desperately scans for an escape I know isn't there.

He releases my hair, running a finger down to my jaw and curling it under my chin, holding my head in position as he lowers his until his cheek is almost touching mine.

I'm trembling, though I'm willing myself to turn to stone.

Or is it him that's trembling?

His left hand curls around my waist. "It could be so easy, you know..."

And for a brief crazy moment I could just lean back, let myself be held by his strength instead of fighting it, and let him carry me into oblivion and do whatever he wants because any sort of contact would make me feel less isolated in these blank places in my mind and though it's horrible and I know it's wrong, the wrongness feels right, somehow.

_No!_

I claw at his cheek, push his head back as I struggle to be free of him. He pushes me away. I spin to face him. My hands are clenched. So are his.

"So go on then," I snarl. "Do it!"

There's no smile on his face now.

"I could have done anything to you from the moment you got here," he says. "But that would prove nothing. The 'doing', Miss Granger, has to come from you."

I stare at the ceiling.

All right then.

_I can't._

It's that or die - and even if he'd use the Killing Curse instead of flaying me apart or just leaving me here to starve, I don't want to die. Perhaps I should, but I don't.

I look at him. And he understands, I'm sure of it. It's written in his smile.

_Oh, God..._

He points his wand at me. "So tell me, little one. Yes, or no?"

I close my eyes. Yes, he understands, but he wants me to say it.

For a moment, all I feel is pure hatred. I suppress it. Not useful.

My nails are pressed hard into my hand - any harder and I'd be bleeding. If I'm not already.

"Yes. Yes, Mr Malfoy."

"Good." The word comes out clipped, hard.

His robe rustles. I stand rigid, waiting.

But he doesn't touch me. The chair scrapes the floor. I open my eyes.

He's sitting with his elbows on the armrests, leaning back and calmly regarding me over the tips of his steepled fingers.

_What now?_

He says nothing.

Did I misunderstand him? What does he want me to do?

He just sits as if carved in stone.

I watch him, watching me, watching... until I can't look any more. But I snap my gaze back to him. I don't want to give him the excuse...

But he's still looking at me, as if he didn't notice at all.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other.

He blinks.

I try not to squirm, but I can feel my cheeks going red.

What does he want me to do?

Well, okay, I'm not stupid: I know what he wants me to do, at least I think I do. But I don't know _what_ he wants me to do.

I take a step forwards, then stop myself. I don't want to do the wrong thing. Nor do I want to go near him before I have to.

He leans to the right, resting his chin on his hand, still gazing at me. Implacable.

I look at the ceiling. This is horrible, I hate it, I don't know what to do. Just thinking about it turns me to ice...

But I fight down that wave of hysteria.

When I look at him again, there are frown lines on his forehead.

Bastard. What the hell does he expect, anyhow? A sodding strip show?

_Oh God._ Help me.

Though standing here like an idiot is almost worse.

Almost.

I look at him.

He looks at me. His left hand drums the armrest.

I look down at my hands.

"Well?"

I jump.

"What are you waiting for?" he says. "Begin!"

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.

He lets out an exaggerated sigh. "I didn't realise I had to give you step by step instructions. You can start, Miss Granger, by taking off your robe."

I stare at him for a moment.

_Sod you, 'Mr Malfoy'._

I pull off the robe and fling it to the floor.

He smirks momentarily, then points.

"I don't recall giving you permission to be slovenly. Pick that up!"

_The bloody arrogant bastard! Who the hell does he think he is?_

But I bend down to do as he says, folding the robe in my arms.

_Fine. So now what am I supposed to do with it?_

He's not giving me any clues, of course. And I refuse to stand in front of him stewing in uncertainty.

I walk to the desk, put the robe down, make sure it's folded so neatly even he can't complain, and walk back to my place.

He stares at me coolly for a full minute. It's hard to keep from folding my arms across my chest, but I resist. I will not give him the satisfaction of telling me not to.

_I am me_ , I tell myself. _I am me and I will not be ashamed just because he's looking at me._

Finally he nods. "Very well," he says, beckoning. "Come."

_Just do it. Don't think._

I take a step towards him, and another-

"Stop!"

He's holding up his hand.

_Oh, what now?_

He smiles lazily, crossing his legs.

"On your knees, Mudblood. I want to see you crawl."

I stare at him.

_That twisted, manipulative-_

"Why?" I cry. "I'm just a _Mudblood_ , aren't I? Why do you want to..."

He raises an eyebrow. "Want? Who said anything about wanting? I require it, Miss Granger, which is something else entirely."

He points at the floor again.

I blink back tears. _I will not be ashamed because of what you make me do._

I keep my gaze locked on his as I lower myself. And when I am kneeling, gripping my knees hard enough to hurt because at least the pain gives me something to focus on that's not _him_ , I keep my head held high, matching his sneer with a cold stare of my own.

But... being in this position, looking up at him... it's too hard to keep pretending it doesn't matter.

I look at the floor.

"That's better," he drawls. "Perhaps Draco had the right idea after all."

_Oh God. Has Malfoy seen me like this?_

I can't look at him, I can't.

The chair creaks as he leans forward. "Come to me, Hermione."

Half of me wants to scream at him; the other half wants to curl up and sob. What I do is concentrate very hard on the rough stone beneath my hands and knees as I move towards him.

At least this way I can look at the floor instead of him.

I hate that he used my name. 'Mudblood' is his bogeyman, born of ignorance; 'Miss Granger' gives at least the illusion of distance. But when he calls me 'Hermione', it's as if he's clipped a leash to my soul.

He's pointing at the floor to his right. Good - easier not to have to stop in front of him. I reach the chair, pressing myself against its legs as if I could shelter under it.

I should stand up, face him, show him he can't take away my dignity.

But I can't.

The only thing I'm aware of is the pressure of the chair leg against my shoulder and the stone against my knees. Nothing else feels real.

I'm not here. It's not Hermione who's doing this.

I flinch as his hand touches the back of my neck.

He rests it there for a few seconds, or minutes, or hours, then traces along my spine.

It tingles.

I feel sick. I can't go through with this.

_You don't have a choice._

He lifts his hand away.

And I feel it again: on my hair, moving over my neck and down to the base of my spine. As if he's stroking a cat.

I tense, waiting for the next touch.

It doesn't come.

He doesn't say anything.

_What happens now?_

Silence.

My knees hurt.

"Hello, Hermione." His voice is quiet. It makes me shudder.

_He'll want you to answer._

I can't.

"Charming as it is to watch you quivering at my feet, it's not going to get us very far, is it?"

I shake my head a fraction. Stupid: I don't even know if he's watching.

I wish he'd go away.

"So I think it's time for you to stand up, don't you agree?" There's a silver thread of menace running through his words.

I can't.

_You have to. Don't think about it._

I'm not here, after all. It's not me doing this.

So I let that silver thread drag me to my feet.

He slides his hand onto the small of my back, holding me against the chair. I grip the armrest.

He smiles. It takes every ounce of self-control to stop myself from twisting away and running to the other side of the room.

"Now, that's much better, don't you think?" he says. "Now we can see each other."

Too close. I can see every pore, every line on his face. And he can see... everything.

I'm going to be sick.

_Bad idea, Hermione. It probably wouldn't go down well._

He raises his eyebrows. I stare back, rock-like. He shrugs.

"I must admit, Hermione, I was expecting a little more participation from you. Do I have to take all the initiative?"

He stretches out the fingers of his left hand, reaching up towards my face. His sleeve slips down his arm.

And it's there: the Dark Mark, pulsing black against his white skin, _twisting_.

_I can't!_

I jerk sideways, desperate to get away.

But he grabs my right arm with his left hand. I try to pull away but he drags me in front of him. My legs press against his knees.

"Oh no," he says. "You don't get to change your mind now. You know what I am - I've never hidden that from you."

But knowing and _seeing_ are two different things. I can't just... give myself to a Death Eater.

_Like it would be any easier if he were unMarked?_

He's right. It's not that he's a... one of them. It's that he's an evil sadistic bastard.

His right hand presses on the small of my back again, drawing me even closer until I'm standing between his legs. Trapped.

He lets go of my arm to lift his up in front of me.

"Take a good look, little one," he murmurs. "Let's not have any illusions."

I'm probably supposed to react, with that thing two inches in front of my nose. But my brain is numb. I look past the Mark to his face, his eyes. So many shades of grey, none of which combine to make anything human.

Familiar, though. Familiar at a level beyond memory. More familiar than his hand warming my back, or his robe scratching my bare legs.

Familiarity isn't safety, but I cling to it anyway.

He lowers his arm.

"So, Hermione," he says quietly. "Show me how much you want your memories back."

I...

The thing is - oh God, this is embarrassing - I don't know what to do. Viktor tended to take the initiative when it came to... well. And _he_... he's had so many more years of experience. Whatever I do... What if he just laughs at me?

He raises an eyebrow. "Hmm?"

"I... What do you want me to do?"

The corner of his mouth twitches.

"Touch me."

I swallow. The twelve inches between us feels like a mile.

_Act, observe, analyse: it'll stop you from feeling._

So part of me does, while the rest of me watches.

His fingers curl against my back as I raise my hand to his face.

I touch his cheek. He flinches. His eyes keep their hold on mine.

His skin is dry: not exactly rough but not smooth, either. Like touching my Dad.

I push the thought away. I can't think about that, that's somewhere else, someone else. Those grey eyes and the hand on my back define the limits of my world. The real me is outside it.

This me imitates his earlier action, moving my hand down his cheek, along his jaw, under his chin... and, not knowing whether to repeat the motion or to do something else, I hesitate.

What the hell am I supposed to do when he won't react?

I take my hand away.

And finally, he speaks.

"Well, that was scintillating."

I look down - _no, not there_ \- up, to my left, to the wall. He reaches up to my chin and turns my head back to face him.

"Come on, Hermione," he drawls. "You can do better than that. Or were you lying about your willingness to do as I asked? Perhaps you don't want your memories back after all?"

How dare he? As if I had a choice!

And I will not hand him the excuse to bury me here. This is not impossible. Horrible beyond horrible, but not impossible.

So I lean forward, with my hands on his shoulders and my fingers curled round to brush the back of his _warm, soft, don't think about it_ neck. He jerks his head away.

I move closer, so that my nose almost touches his. All I can see are his eyes: wide, grey, cold, his pupils widening in my shadow. 

His shoulders are tense under my hands.

"Is this better, Mr Malfoy?"

He can't quite hide a grimace.

_No, somehow I don't think it is..._

Ha! So he wanted participation, did he? I'll show the bastard!

And I _can't believe I'm doing this_ lower my head, my lips towards his-

Our noses bump.

I blink.

And I cry out as he grabs my hair and wrenches my head away from his. Now he's the one leaning forwards and I'm bent back, staring at the ceiling and trying to remember to breathe.

His right hand slides away from my back. I take a half-step back but he twists his left hand in my hair, holding me just as surely and far more painfully than before.

And his fingers are on my breast, rolling my nipple-

_"Ow!"_

He pinched it! That _hurt_.

"You are pathetic," he says. "Didn't your Bulgarian boyfriend teach you anything?"

"He's not my boyfriend."

He laughs, loosening his grip on my hair just enough for me to look at him.

"No," he murmurs, raising a finger to my throat. "He's not, is he?"

He traces a line down, between my breasts, over my belly...

I squirm. He smiles. His finger continues its path.

_No!_

I beat at his hand but it's between my legs, thrusting _up_ and oh God it hurts, hurts, hurts even to move and as I whimper with the pain of it he jerks my head to one side and clamps his lips over mine.

I freeze rigid.

He pulls back a fraction. "What was I saying about participation, Mudblood?"

I'm strung taut between pulled scalp above and the raw agony of his hand below. I have no choice.

I let my jaw slacken as he pushes his tongue between my teeth. _Horrible, horrible,_ the taste of him as he slimes into every corner of my mouth.

Lavender's voice echoes in some corner of my mind, giggling: some joke about snogging older men.

But this isn't 'snogging'. This is invasion. A slow, deliberate staking of territory that he doesn't even want.

_So he claims._

He sits back at last, his lip curled, his left hand reaching for a handkerchief and his right still painfully _there_.

"Well, well, Hermione. That was delicious." He smirks, then leans over and spits on the floor.

Oh, how I long to do the same!

He straightens, wipes his mouth carefully on the handkerchief.

I...

He freezes me in his gaze. The black of his pupils is edging out the grey. I can see myself reflected there.

He trails his hand down my right arm.

"So, little one," he says softly, "shall we see what else you have to offer?"

He seizes my wrist, twisting it up behind me, forcing me to turn as he pulls his other hand out of me. He wipes a cold trail down my back.

And he's standing, pushing me towards the corner of the room. Where the bed is looming, its heavy curtains gaping as if waiting to swallow me whole.

But I don't have to feel fear now. I just need to get through it.

_no..._

He's close behind me. I can feel his robe brushing the back of my legs.

He stops beside the desk, takes out his wand.

_"Nox."_

The darkness is absolute.

He holds his wand against my stomach. The wood is hard and cold.

Slowly, he moves it up, letting it absorb my heartbeat, pressing on my breasts so that I have to lean back against him. Finally he lays it across my throat.

I hear his breathing and my breathing, shallow and fast.

His robe is scratchy against my back.

"No magic, Hermione," he murmurs. "Not this time."

His breath warms my ear. I shiver.

He places the wand on the desk, a loud clear _clack_ of wood on wood, then pushes me forwards so I stumble, barely keeping my balance.

And now there's just him and me, my legs pressing against the bed and the dark pressing in on us both.

"Well, get in!"

I jump at his tone, scramble to do as he says.

The sheets are soft under my hands. It doesn't feel right.

I'm going to wake up in a minute. This can't be happening. The first time was supposed to be with someone special, someone I loved and who loved me in return.

Not... this. Not his hard and clinical touch on my shoulder, back, legs, preparing for a consummation of hate.

He's not even taken off his gloves.

"Good girl," he says quietly. "You see? A little obedience doesn't hurt, does it?"

_No. It just locks me up and throws away the key._

He speaks again, more quietly still.

"Lie on your back for me, Hermione."

I don't dare disobey. But Hermione won't have to. I'm sending her away, rolling her up into a little ball and pushing her into the back of my mind. Somewhere he can't get to her.

Every instinct screams at the rest of me to curl up, to melt into the wall or the darkness, but all I can do is lie here. Waiting.

The roaring in my ears can't drown out the silken rustle as something falls to the floor.

_Remember summer at Grimmauld Place, joking with Ginny about what wizards wear under their robes?_

I really don't want to know.

The mattress dips under his weight. I strain to watch what he's doing but it's impossible to see anything in this non-light.

"Don't move, little one."

_Run! Get out now! Grab his wand from the table and go!_

But the bed creaks - he's kneeling over me. His robe falls in heavy warm folds across my legs.

Too late.

I wouldn't have had a chance anyhow. Even if he hadn't ripped all the useful spells from my mind, getting away wouldn't give me my memories back.

He plants a hand near my head, close enough to warm my shoulder. I still can't _see_.

And his other hand is on my belly, immobile.

I lie rigid, trying to feel the sheets beneath me more than the heat of his hand. Half of me is screaming at him to _just get on with it_. The other half wants time to freeze for ever.

His fingers move, warm leather on cold skin. He traces circles around my belly-button, slides down my waist to make the sensitive skin there flinch.

And he's cupping my breast, holding me between thumb and forefinger as I hold my breath, waiting for him to _pinch_ like he did before.

But he just pulls slightly, and moves to the other.

My hands twitch, longing to slap him away. But I can't. This is my only hope.

"I'm not keeping my little pet Mudblood waiting, am I?" He's trying for lazy amusement, but there's an odd angry tightness at the core.

_He's not talking to you. He's not talking to you. He's talking to his image of you._

He laughs, and lifts his hand away.

Nothing.

Nothing.

And the layers of fabric on my waist are moving, pulled aside as his hand burrows under to where my legs are locked together.

_No... no... no..._

I let my inner voice moan away in the background. It's stupid, trying to avoid the inevitable, but it can't help it.

He's resting his hand on my tight-squeezed legs, one finger brushing the crevice between them.

I wait.

He waits.

Can I wake up now?

His breathing is slow, deep, trying to be steady.

I know what he wants.

_'I want you to demonstrate that you can keep your word...'_

I wonder how long he'd wait?

_'...even when you hate yourself for doing it.'_

There's only one choice. I just don't know how to make it.

_'I must admit, Hermione, I was expecting a little more participation from you.'_

Hermione isn't here.

Just me, him, his hand. Waiting.

_'...even when you hate yourself for doing it.'_

But I don't hate myself. I hate him. Hate him, hate him, hate him.

I won't let him win.

To stop him winning I need my memories.

I bite my lip, hard, and try to make my legs relax.

But it's so hard, harder than I'd ever have thought, to know the enemy is hovering there, poised for destruction, and just to... let him in.

Tears puddle in my eyes. I let them flow over. It's not as if he can see.

I can move my legs. I can. It's not as if they have to move far, just enough...

And it doesn't matter, anyhow. I'm not here, not really. He can't touch _me_.

I hear him exhale as he pushes his hand between my legs. And a quiet grunt as he rocks on his knees and hooks his ankles round mine to pull them out in a wide 'V'.

_no no no no no_

I twist, kicking to free my feet but he's trapped my legs under his and I can't move as he leans forwards and slaps me.

I gulp at silence.

He can hear that I'm crying, he must do, even if he can't feel my tears on his glove.

"It's hard, isn't it, to lose your illusions?" His voice grinds through the darkness. "To face the myth of control over your life for the hollow lie it is. To know that another's will matters more than your own..."

He trails his hand down my body.

Yes, I get the point: I can't stop him. But I can hate him - he can force me to do God knows what, but he can't take that away.

His hand brushes my legs again... I'm so, so glad I can't see the expression on his face as he touches me where he has no right to touch me, knowing that I know there's nothing I can do about it.

_Get off me, get off me..._

But he's leaning forward now, his hands on either side of my head taking his weight from my legs.

His hair brushes my shoulder.

And between my legs, I can feel...

I curl my fingers against the mattress, gripping the sheets as if they're an escape rope to a realer world.

"Relax, little one." That hated voice, purring venom right above my head. "I wouldn't want to hurt you now, would I?"

The bastard's right - about relaxing, that is. He wouldn't give a damn about hurting me. Probably he'd prefer it that way.

But this is just my body we're talking about, not me. I've sent 'me' away.

So I should keep her body safe. I can do this. I can let him do this.

_And I can make him pay for it later._

I breathe in, slow and silent. Hold my breath and the quivering tension - and release them both.

He breathes out too, the air whistling through his teeth.

A split-second movement and _OOooooooow oh my god help stop stop it hurts hurts hurts-_

He grunts. Withdraws. _Sandpaper, scraping, burning..._

People do this for _pleasure_?

But people survive it, too. I just need to let him do what he's going to do.

But it _hurts-_

He thrusts in again and I hear myself whimper because it's pain like I wouldn't believe. It can't be right that it hurts like this, it can't!

I grip the mattress to lever myself away from that terrible penetrating pain but his weight on my legs keeps me trapped so I claw at his face crying out for him to stop stop stop-

He seizes my wrists and presses them down, stretching out my arms across the bed.

"Oho. So you do know how to make it interesting."

I twist and struggle but I can hardly move at all.

I can hear his breathing, fast and shallow.

Again, the scraping and burning and thrust forward - and I scream. I know I should lie here in frosty disdain but I can't separate myself from the pain-

_"Please..."_

He lowers his head, his cheek against mine, his mouth against my ear, his hair across my face...

"You are mine, Hermione. Don't you understand that?" His voice quivers taut. "I can do whatever I want with you. And I will."

He's on me, around me, in me. I can't see him but I can't breathe without smelling his putrid sweat.

"You belong to me." Hissing voice, surrounding me in the darkness. "Do you understand?"

I whimper my assent. Anything to bring this to an end, to get away, to put a distance between us. Anything to see his ugly face across a desk instead of having his ugly self on top of me...

"Say it!"

"Yes." My voice is barely there but sod it, he's close enough to hear. "I belong to you." But I don't. I don't. _I don't!_

"Again!" he snarls.

"I belong to you." _In your sick and twisted dreams._

"And who are you?"

I squeeze my eyes shut, but the tears ooze out anyway.

"No one."

_Scrape thrust scream_

"Not good enough, little one. Who are you?"

"I..."

_'Me' isn't here. I sent her away._

"Have you forgotten your name? Who... Are... You?"

He makes me punctuate each word with a scream.

_Bastard... bastard... bastard..._

I know what he wants. I mumble the word through my tears.

"Hermione."

_Hermione isn't here. She isn't._

"Hermione," he breathes. "And who do you belong to, _Hermione?_ "

_No one._

"Y-you. I belong to you."

"You belong to me _what?_ "

I drag the words out of God knows where.

"I belong to you... Mr Malfoy."

_No I don't._

He lets out a long breath, eases himself out of me.

Is that it? Please God let that be it.

I'm shaking. I can feel him trembling too.

Then his hands grip mine and he pushes into me hard and fast, ripping a scream from the bowels of my being. Which he stifles, his mouth pressed onto mine, his tongue stabbing down to devour all of my pain, my hate, my fury...

_My surrender._

No.

He lifts his head. I gasp for air.

_Oh God oh God oh God..._

What's the phrase - lie there and think of England?

But this _is_ England, this privileged bastard spouting platitudes in the public light of day and letting the ugly truth loose where no one can see...

He withdraws. I brace myself. And again I scream, but this time I jerk my head to the side, sucking in a mouthful of his hair as he tries to find my mouth and fails.

Then I feel his teeth on my neck.

_Ohmygod._ He's biting me. He's actually biting me. _Too much, too much..._

I'm shaking.

He lets go. But his stubble is still scraping my neck as he nuzzles under my chin-

I hold myself rigid as his teeth close on me again. I can't pull away - what if he doesn't let go? 

His teeth clamp my skin - a long burst of pain sharpened almost to sweetness against the rough raw soreness below and the aching pressure on my legs and hands. I can't help whimpering, holding still only because any movement hurts so much more...

_Stop snivelling! Don't give him the satisfaction!_

I swallow, grasping for some self control, curling and uncurling my toes.

At last he lifts his head and I can breathe freely again.

It... it doesn't feel like it's bleeding.

I let out a shaky sigh of relief.

His head bumps mine as he scrapes out and in and the pain below swamps the pain above.

He's breathing hard, deliberate breaths. I'm trying to be still and silent.

He moves my hands above my head, pressing both wrists together into the mattress. And of course that leaves him with one hand free, one hand to trail down the side of my head, one hand to stroke my cheek as if he can actually feel something through his glove.

He lifts his hand away. So he can touch me anywhere, now, as if where he _is_ touching me isn't enough.

I brace myself.

I am completely unprepared for the slap. I cry out as my head is wrenched to the side.

He spits on my face. "Shut up, you stupid Mudblood whore! Isn't this what you wanted?"

He convulses: I gasp in pain as he gasps for breath.

_He's lost it._

I thought I was afraid before, but I was wrong. That was anger, shame, disgust. But this...

I didn't know what to be afraid of.

He grabs at my wrists with both hands, stretching my arms apart as he pushes in again.

"You forced me into this, you uppity little bitch." His voice is low, twisted almost beyond recognition. "You couldn't just accept your place like everyone else, no, not you. You had to make me prove it. Happy now?"

He's breathing quickly. Too quickly.

"Answer me!"

_What the hell do you want me to say, you crazy inbred pureblood?_

He pulls back, slowly, drawing out the pain. Pushes forward, as if to squeeze every last bubbling sob from my throat.

"You are disgusting." His voice shakes; he holds it tight-reined. "What makes you think I should bother with you?"

That pathetic whimpering noise is coming from me.

"Tell me!"

I gulp.

"I belong to you." It's the only thing I can think of.

He lets out a shuddering breath. I moan as he drives into me again.

His words come out in a hiss. "Say it again."

"I- I belong to you." _No..._

He thrusts; I scream.

"Again!"

"I belong to you."

"And what does that mean?"

"I... you..." I'm crying for real now, I can hardly get the words out. "You-can-do..."

"Say it so I can hear it, Mudblood. Like you mean it!"

"You can -" _sniff_ "- you can do anything... _Anything!_ "

The last word comes out in a howl as he forces himself into me again and again. I'm only dimly aware of his fast whistling breaths beyond the pain and the sobbing...

I lie limp, tears flowing down my cheeks. If he wants to see my pain, I'll show him my pain. He'll only make it worse if I don't.

But it hurts... hurts... hurts... hurts... hurts... hurts...

Until he grips my wrists hard enough to stop me crying, gives out a horrible high shuddering yelp - and is still.

_Oh God..._

It still hurts.

He heaves himself up; the rush of cool air makes me shiver. I curl up, away from him, holding my knees to my chest.

I want to forget this forever.

_Only a few more minutes. Just wait for him to go..._

But all the baths in the world won't scrub this away.

His robes swish; he's picking up whatever underthing he dropped earlier.

_Go. Just go. Go away and leave me in the dark._

The bed sags. His hand is on my shoulder. I shudder.

"Oh, don't be like that, little one." His voice is low and quiet.

I curl up tighter, curl into myself, away...

He touches the back of my neck. But it's not his glove I can feel.

"Ah..." He bumps his naked finger down my spine. Revulsion mates with cold hard fear.

The bed creaks. He's leaning over me; I can feel the heat from his body.

"You thought we were finished, didn't you?" His finger reaches the base of my spine, nestles into the curve beyond.

_I..._

His voice purrs in the darkness. "On the contrary, Hermione. We've only just begun."


	18. Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Lucius extends his control over Hermione, can she keep control of herself?

Silence. Deep, black, empty.

But only outside my head. Inside, I can't stop the screaming. Or worse, that voice, carving me inside and out, just as... as...

_"Shut up!"_

_Hand on my throat, stifling scream to silence. Voice, soft as steel: "I've had enough of your banshee impressions, Hermione. You agreed to this, remember?"_

_White lights dance in the dark._

_"Answer me!"_

_Can't reply. Can't breathe._

But he made me answer. Over and over and over.

_"I belong to you."_

_"And? Tell me, Mudblood."_

_"You can do anything-"_

_"Yesss...." A long, shuddering sigh._

_And it begins again..._

I need a bath. Not that I could clean this away in a million years. My skin is sticky with sweat and blood and... other things. But he's bound my hands so I can't even try to wipe myself clean.

_"It doesn't matter what you want, little one. You belong to me."_

_His fingernails cut into my hips as he drags me up onto hands and knees. He's pressing against me, hot and hard and horrible and I can't stand it..._

Why couldn't I have just gone limp, let him get on with it? Isn't that what you're supposed to do?

But it wouldn't have made any difference. He wanted me to fight.

_"Where do you think you can run to, Hermione?"_

_Pulling me back as I dig my fingers into the mattress, scrabbling to slip from his sweaty grasp even as one arm wraps round my waist like an iron band and his other hand crushes my breast until I cry out and he murmurs against my cheek, so close I can taste the foulness in his breath:_

_"You belong to me. Do you want me to prove it?"_

Some of it... God, I'd never have imagined. Why would anyone want...?

It makes the Dark Mark seem clean.

_His hand on my head, pushing my face into the sweat-drenched sheets until I gag._

_He says nothing. Pulls out of me. Wet dribble down my leg..._

_And his weight is gone. I gasp for breath. Keep my eyes closed. Waiting._

_But he says nothing. Just grabs my wrists and hauls them in front of my face. Rope coils round them and snakes up towards the headboard._

_I turn towards the wall. I'm shivering, from cold, from fear, from exhaustion._

_The bathroom door slams._

He didn't say anything when he'd finished, either, after he'd emerged from his bath in a cloud of sickly-sweet steam that made me want to puke. For all I know he didn't even look at me as he _Scourgified_ his robes and pulled on his boots. Just flicked his wand to cover me with one damp smelly sheet before he Disapparated.

I didn't look at him, either.

Didn't look at anything.

Think of anything.

_You can do anything..._

My Mum used to say that to me. It meant something else, then.

My eyes are open in the darkness. But I haven't moved. To move would make it seem real.

I'm cold.

The sheets stink of him.

I try not to think of what's going to happen when he comes back. If he comes back.

Not thinking is easy when your mind is numb and your body is cold. I can't even pull my hands down under the sheet. I breathe warmth onto them.

My body wants to live, even if I don't.

_It's not up to you. You belong to me._

No. I don't!

But my protest means nothing. He may not have the 'right', but he has the power. And down here that's all that matters.

_I can do anything._

And he will. I knew that before, I suppose. But now it's as if he's opened up a new portal to hell and shoved me through.

_Don't think._

Just stare into the dark...

Until a flare of light glitters off the stone walls. I close my eyes.

Footsteps. His. Coming towards me.

_Oh God. Make him go away._

Every sinew screams at me to run, to hide, to try to Disapparate even if it means splinching myself into a thousand tiny pieces.

_I can't face him. Please don't make me..._

The footsteps stop.

I hold myself still, silent. Try to stop shivering.

Nothing.

But in the end I have to open my eyes. There's no point in trying to fight him, after all.

I stare past my hands, bound, swollen, out of focus. He's standing behind me, doing God knows what. I care, but I don't. The smell of him turns me to ice.

His wand. In front of my face. Touching the rope, making it slither away.

I pull my hands down to my chest. Under the sheet.

He rips it away.

I close my eyes.

And I feel his hand on my ribs. Gloved. It slides down to rest on my waist.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.

_You belong to me._

I wait.

He lifts his hand away. And, finally, speaks.

"I thought we'd agreed that the games were at an end."

Games? My God...

I'm going to be sick. Every hard-clipped syllable twists in my gut.

"So you can stop ignoring me, Hermione."

I shudder as my name slides from his tongue.

I need to get up. I need to get through this if I want to live.

 _Living?_ I can't even imagine it.

_You belong to me..._

I need to open my eyes, turn and-

_I can't._

Can't even think it.

He jabs his wand into my ribs. I curl up against the pain but moving makes everything hurt.

"I know you heard me," he says. "And we both know what happens next. I tell you to get up, then I have to threaten you when you don't, and then you cower on the edge of the bed as if doing what I say is worse than what I'll do to you if you won't."

He lifts his wand away. "Not any more, Hermione. That game grew tiresome a long time ago."

His footsteps echo across the floor. For one horrible moment I think he's just going to leave me here; I twist round to see him sneering from across the room.

"You have half an hour to make yourself presentable."

There isn't an 'or else'. Disobedience is simply not an option. I swing my feet to the floor.

God, it hurts. Everything hurts. But I manage to stalk into the bathroom, looking anywhere but at him. I almost slam the door.

I'm surprised he lets me get away with that.

As if I care! Sod him and his bloody squeaky-clean bathroom and his fucking superior act and- and-

I pick up a jar and hurl it against the tiles.

The silence is deafening.

And then footsteps. Click click click click click until the bathroom door is wrenched open.

He says nothing. One glance at me, lips pressed together, before his gaze moves over the ointment smeared up the wall. Two flicks of his wand and the mended jar is in his hand, full. He holds it out.

"I provided that for your benefit," he says. "I expect you to use it. Unless you would prefer me to apply it for you?" He does look at me then, his lip curled in distaste. I snatch the jar from him, turn away.

"Twenty-eight minutes," he tells me. The door closes.

I turn the taps on full, the splashing water masking my voice as I chant _I hate you I hate you I hate you_ into the rising steam. Almost silently, because I don't dare let him hear, but still it's a litany of survival.

The ointment is a standard treatment for cuts and bruises, assuming I can trust the handwritten label. But hell, I need to do something to stop it hurting, and anyhow if I don't use it he might...

Though the way he was looking at me, he'd rather eat raw Flobberworms. 

_Don't think about that._

I dip a finger into the jar and slide a film of lotion over the dark bruise on my wrist. It tingles a bit, but then it seems to hurt less, though it doesn't look any different. Placebo effect maybe, but as long as it works, I don't really care.

Twenty-eight minutes. Twenty-six, now. Call it twenty-five. Five minutes to fill up the bath; ten minutes to scrub away every trace of... of _that_. Five minutes to dry. Five minutes contingency.

I scoop ointment out of the jar and slather it on my skin. There's enough in the jar to put more on after I get out of the bath, and getting into the bath is going to be a whole lot less painful if the scratches heal even a little bit.

Though maybe it's better if it does hurt. More honest, searing the memories away.

Memories. That was his excuse, wasn't it? My excuse. And yes, I said I'd do anything to get them back and I meant it and deep down I don't really have to persuade myself that they're worth more to me than... than...

But I'd give anything to have that memory wiped away.

_No, not 'anything'._

I climb into the bath, turn off the cold tap. The hot tap I leave running, feeling the heat seep towards the numbness inside.

I've seen the police leaflets about what to do after being attacked, of course: how you're supposed to resist the urge to scrub yourself clean; how you need to preserve the evidence. Well, bugger that! Even if I wasn't still in this nightmare, even if I thought the Ministry would even believe me, I've got all the evidence I need. And once I get a wand in my hand again I won't need any bloody legal process to give him what he deserves...

I mean: Kingsley, Mad-Eye, Tonks, I guess I'd trust them okay. 

_Yeah, 'cos they've done so much to help you so far._

I do trust them. I have to. But I want their respect, not their pity. 

Part of me wants to cry. A larger part of me wants to throw his cruelty back in his face.

No. What I really want is never to see him or think of him again.

Fat chance. No amount of memory charms will scrub _that_ from my mind.

I dunk my head in the water, let it soften the tangles in my hair.

I keep my eyes closed. I don't want to see the marks, don't need to see my skin redden as I scrub and scrub and scrub. I can feel where the brush catches tender skin, can feel it scraping away any lingering signs of what he did.

_Every last trace..._

But then there are the older marks, like the puckered scar tissue down my cheek. I'll never be able to scrub that away. Though compared to everything else, it feels almost normal.

Or is that just because I can't remember?

I gulp down deep lungfuls of moist air. If only the steam was hot enough to scald away the dirt and make me clean inside. I can still taste him...

I cup my hands under the hot tap and bring the water to my mouth. Swirl. Spit. And again.

God, I'm thirsty.

I twist the cold tap on again, tilt my head underneath and drink. My throat is sore from screaming. The water eases the pain a little.

I turn both taps off, and sit back, arms around my knees, and watch the rising tendrils of steam. I revel in the warmth. Here, now, I can breathe in peace.

_Don't think about what happened. Don't think about what will-_

I wave my hand in front of my face, watching the currents eddy. Tiny droplets of water, dancing, rising from a potion of cleansing.

I stretch out, sink lower in the water until I can't see over the top of the bathtub. I almost feel warm, now.

I blink. Tears form in my eyes and I let them flow.

It's okay. I need to cry.

This is... too much. What happens now?

_Don't think about it._

_Don't think about it._

Better to watch the white steam against the white ceiling and push away stray thoughts of screaming darkness...

 _Shit!_ How long have I been sitting here?

I launch myself from the bath, yanking out the plug.

_Don't panic. It won't make you go any faster._

I grab a towel from the pile by the mirror, and twist it round my hair. It has to be okay. He'd be banging the door down if my half-hour was up.

I rub myself down with a second towel. Some of the bruises and scratches still twinge, so I reach for the jar of ointment and smear some on my skin.

And... oh no.

My robe is still out there. Have I got to walk through that door with just a towel between me and...

_Or maybe he doesn't expect you to wear-_

NO!

No _way_.

He said 'presentable', after all. And that he didn't want to play games. Maybe if I just open the door a crack and ask him-

_But it's not a game, is it? You belong to him. He can do anything..._

I wrap my arms around myself. Okay, so he can do what he likes to me - I don't need him to make _that_ point again. But I don't have to choose to humiliate myself.

I pick up the third towel and shake it out to see how big it is, how much it will cover.

_Lucius Malfoy's little Mudblood House-Elf..._

Shut _up!_

And then I see that the towel beneath, at the bottom of the pile, is not a towel at all. I pick it up and it unfolds into a robe.

It's not black, that's why I didn't realise before. It's pale blue, and far finer than the sackcloth he's been making me wear up till now.

Why?

I run my fingers over the soft fabric. Tears prick at my eyes. I blink them away.

_For God's sake, Hermione! Get a grip!_

It's just that... it's been so long since I've seen anything nice.

He's still not given me any sodding underwear, though.

What's that about? Does he want me as his bloody sex slave? What a fucking cliché.

I'll die first. That's sounds like a cliché too, but it's a cold hard certainty in my bones. I shed a skin last night. Or had it ripped away.

And I know for certain I'll die single. No one is going to touch me like that again, ever.

I slip the robe over my head. It looks... okay, actually. High necked and long sleeved so it covers up the bruises, and it clings close enough to look more like a dress than a sack, but not so much that it shows where my bones stick out. And, thankfully, the lack of underwear is not at all evident.

It's almost the same colour as the dress I wore to the Yule Ball. But this time I haven't got three hours to sort out my hair. Three minutes is more like it.

I push back my curls. I wish I had a comb, a hairslide, a potion that could smooth them out to make an armour that says I am elegant and hard and your equal and _you will not touch me._

But I haven't. And really, why should I make an effort to look immaculate? It's what's inside that counts.

And I am hard and cold and his equal and he will not touch me.

_Dream on._

I'm not dreaming. I'm declaring. He tricked me into - _don't think about it_ \- so I could get my memories back. And he's going to damn well give me my memories back. And then we'll see.

_Do you really want to see?_

Am I scared, do you mean? Sure I'm scared. I've got huge chunks of my life missing and for all I know it's all even worse than... than what just happened. But it doesn't matter. I need that knowledge because by God I'm going to make sure he suffers for what he's done.

This isn't hate. I can't afford the luxury of hate. This is anger.

_You belong to me._

Do I hell!

I fling open the bathroom door.

And he's... there. In the middle of the room. Lip curled, eyes hard, hair pulled smoothly back, fingers curled around his wand.

I look away. I'm trembling. I can smell him and he smells like he did when he made me kiss him, when he spat on the floor, when he...

Don't cry. Don't cry.

_Damn him!_

"Draco was right."

I stare at him.

He smirks. "That colour really does suit you."

I cling to the door frame and tilt my chin up, looking past him so I don't have to look at him.

_I am strong and hard and cold and your equal-_

And in my head I'm walking into the room defiantly, demanding that he keep his side of the bargain as if there had been no bargain and he hadn't systematically dismembered every shred of self-respect I had left.

I can't go out there.

"Come here, Hermione."

I can't.

_You have to._

This is a nightmare.

_So what else is new?_

I grit my teeth, drop my gaze and push myself away from the door. Looking at the floor means I don't have to look at him.

I stop when I can see the toes of his boots.

"Look at me."

Feel nothing, that's the way to do it. Ice in my veins, my heart, my soul.

"What did you learn last night, Hermione?"

I recite it flatly. "I belong to you. You can do anything you want to me."

I shiver, I can't help it. As if a black icicle is dripping through my soul.

He nods slowly. He looks... different, somehow. Watching me from the far side of a gulf that's swallowed last night in its depths. 

But still deadly. I can remember that much.

"Put your arms around my waist."

_No._

Just thinking about it makes me feel ill.

"I said, 'Put your arms around my waist'. And I meant _now_."

_Don't think. Just do._

I move closer. He stands absolutely rigid, like he was when he first made me touch him yesterday.

I lift my hands, holding them lightly against the sides of his robe. I don't want to touch him, to feel his warmth, to _smell_ him.

It'd serve him right if I puked.

"Oh, for goodness sake, girl," he snaps. "Do you want to be splinched?"

He steps forward, crushing me against him with one arm against my back. I gasp for breath but before I can push him away his wand presses on my temple and-

.

I blink.

I sway.

 _Oh_ , my head.

What... _Him._ That faint smell of putrid roses overlain with male sweat envelops me. My upper arm is clamped in steel.

I shake my head, force myself to see.

His office. He's holding me up at arm's length. No expression on his face.

As I meet his gaze, he releases me. I stagger, but stay upright. He nods once, and gestures towards the desk.

"Do sit down, Miss Granger."

I feel sick.

But... his office. Where my memories are. Were. That has to be a good thing, right?

_You can do this, Hermione. Everything between then and now was just a bad dream._

Or at least, it happened _there_ , not here. I push _there_ to the back of my mind and walk to the chair he's set in front of the desk. He moves to take his seat behind it.

I should lift my head, force him to meet my gaze as his equal. But.

Fabric rustles as he leans forward. "I trust, Miss Granger, that there will be no need for a repeat of last night's distasteful little lesson."

Distasteful? Huh.

I swallow.

_Look at him, Hermione. You are strong and hard and cold and you will survive._

I squeeze my hands together in my lap. Raise my head. Speak, every word discrete. "I trust not, _Mr Malfoy_."

He raises an eyebrow fractionally. "Indeed."

We're somewhere else, now. Beyond.

He reaches into a drawer and brings out a roll of parchment. One flick of his wand and it lies flat on the desk between us.

It's covered in writing, but I can't focus on it. My mind doesn't want to look.

_Concentrate! Look at him: he's not going to touch you._

Indeed. It's as if he's carved from ice, though ice wouldn't look that revolted.

He places a neat black quill on the desk, and a squat silver ink pot.

_Breathe..._

He turns the parchment around so that it faces me. He points to a space at the bottom and pushes the quill across the desk.

"You will sign there, Miss Granger."

Fear closes around my heart and clenches, hard.

I meet his gaze. "What is this?"

"A contract."

I'm lost: lost because I haven't a clue what's going on, and lost because I have a horrible feeling that if I sign it, I'll spiral down into an irretrievable nowhere.

He pushes the parchment towards me. "I suggest you read it."

Yes, yes, I need to read it. But fear has frozen my comprehension. It's actually less frightening to look him in the eye and say, "My memories, Mr Malfoy."

His nostrils flare. "What of them?"

_Oh, shit._

But I'm committed now. "We had an agreement. You said you would give me my memories back if I..."

"And so I shall. _After_ you sign."

"No."

My mind is slowly whirring into life. He can delay and delay and delay, and with every hour that passes it'll become harder to reintegrate my memories so I'm closer to being as good as dead anyhow. Whereas he... Fuck, I'd better read the damn thing. He wants _something_ from me and killing me isn't going to get it for him.

"You are in no position to say no, Miss Granger."

_Neither are you._

But his voice has more of an edge in it now. Winding him up isn't going to do me any good at all.

I pull the parchment towards me. The writing is small, inked in perfectly straight rows.

~ * ~

_By this contract_

_the witch Hermione Jane Granger_  
is bound to complete the task required of her by  
the wizard Lucius Marcellus Malfoy  
and the wizard Lucius Marcellus Malfoy  
is bound to protect and provide for the witch Hermione Jane Granger

_until the contract is completed or dissolved_

_and_

_the witch Hermione Jane Granger and the wizard Lucius Marcellus Malfoy  
are bound never to reveal what passes under the terms of this contract._

 

_I declare by the natural laws of magic that I enter into this contract fully and freely:_

_Signed_   
  
  
  


_Hermione Jane Granger - - - - - - - - - Lucius Marcellus Malfoy_

~ * ~

Oh, shit, shit, shit. I didn't think I could be more scared than I already was, but this... I mean, I _said_ I'd do what he wanted, and it's not as if he can't make me anyhow. But agreeing to be magically bound by my consent... _Oh, God._

I look at him, expecting to see a triumphant smirk plastered across his face. But he's frowning slightly, eyes narrowed. Almost anxious.

Right. For whatever reason, he needs me to sign this thing. I do have leverage.

_ARE YOU MAD?_

Mad for even considering signing. The second part is more disturbing, if anything. I don't want to share a secret with him! Even seeing our names side by side like that feels _wrong_.

But we already share a secret. It's not as if I'm ever going to talk to anyone about what he did to me down there.

And this binds him to protect me, too. He wouldn't do that if the magic didn't require some sort of reciprocal commitment. Which means that 'protection' is mine to define, just as he will set the 'task'.

He's serious. But what the hell does he want me to _do_?

He taps his fingers on the desk. "You have a question, Miss Granger?"

I take a deep breath, and launch myself off the precipice. "You haven't said anything about what the task is."

"And nor will I, until your confidentiality is assured."

 _Oh, come on._ If I refused to sign he'd probably kill me, and that would be a pretty damn effective way of 'assuring my confidentiality'.

Unless I stayed behind as a ghost.

I shiver. Has he really taken _that_ into consideration? Suddenly his world feels unutterably foreign.

"This only guarantees my safety until the end of the contract," I say.

He almost suppresses a smirk: my capitulation is evident in my words.

"No," he tells me. "It only makes me responsible for you until the end of the contract. I assure you: if you complete the contract, you will have nothing to worry about."

He smiles, as if at some private joke. The smile fades. "You are wasting time, Miss Granger. Sign the contract."

"I will," I say slowly, pushing the scream of protest to the back of my mind. " _After_ you return my memories."

His face freezes in a rictus of fury. His hand twitches. "You dare to defy me!"

"No. _No._ " I fight to calm my breathing. "But how can I sign something like this with these gaps in my mind? Won't it affect the magic?"

His eyes narrow. He knows I have another reason for being insistent.

And maybe he does, too. Maybe he wants my agreement to take hold under the memories. Maybe he thinks that will make my commitment to him come first.

So much for not playing games.

Or maybe he thinks I won't sign once I have the memories. Are they really that bad?

Do I really want to know?

_Yes!_

"Isn't it safer to integrate my memories first?" I say quietly. "Whatever you want me to do, I'm not going to be able to do much if my mind doesn't work properly." _As you so clearly proved yesterday._

He says nothing.

My head aches. I resist the urge to hold it in my hands.

Is it aching because of the holes in my memory? Is it already too late?

"Please."

_So much for being hard and cold and strong._

He looks at me for a long moment, then shrugs. "Very well. But if you go back on your word, I promise you will regret it for the rest of your short and painful life."

He doesn't wait to see my reaction as he turns to the black lacquered cabinet behind him.

I take a few deep breaths. I can feel myself shaking; I want to cry. But I daren't. If I start now I'll never stop.

He places the dark Pensieve between us.

I can't see any images in it, just swirling fog.

Is it my imagination, or are the silver swirls duller than I remember? Are they deteriorating?

What if he's changed them, corrupted them?

He frowns. "Get on with it!"

I pull the Pensieve towards me and lower my head.

_You don't have a choice. You can't go back now._

I have to trust that he wants my brain to work properly. It's a darn sight safer than trusting in his good nature.

I hold my breath and plunge my face beneath the surface.

 _sunlight slants onto a leather-bound book_  
You really ought to treat that book with more respect  
There is no way out, Mudblood. Not for you  
glowing red eyes and long sharp teeth lunge from the woods...Stupefy! STUPEFY! but Defendo wreaths him in red... Caedo - pain and blood run down my leg...  
Holy shit, Granger! What in Hades happened to you?  
Crucio! fire - blood - steel-  
Crucio! His screaming, his back arching, shuddering and twitching and... too still... white-blond hair across his cheek as blood trickles from his mouth  
So the esteemed Hermione Granger has an interest in the Dark Arts? Well, Mudblood, you've certainly come to the right place!  
standing in my underwear with a puddle of clothes at my feet as he grins and looks at... everything  
This is what you dream about, in the darkest corner of your soul? I'm flattered, Hermione, truly I am... gloved fingers raise my chin, cup my breast, twist in my hair...Are we to conclude that you do have an appetite for pain after all?  
sharp sweat-smell, silk, roses  
Viktor brushes away a rose petal and leans in to kiss me  
his breath on my ear  
Well, well, well, Hermione. What an endlessly entertaining creature you are  
red and black scales under my fingers, warm... he hurls the snake against the wall ...  
axe dropping- Expelliarmus! - thud - clang  
Imperio... stinking slippery blood on hand, on knife - throw it away!  
Blood, pitchfork, blood - straw - shit  
Mum smiles in the garden  
Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday, dear Hermione...  
Merry Christmas, Mudblood  
No no too stiff too twisted Goodbye, beautiful cat  
Evanesco! Evanesco! Evanesco!  
fury LIGHT-

... and nothing.

I... I...

I push myself upright. I'm shaking, even more than before.

_...my cheek pressing against stone, his wand trailing a line of acid along my arm... ugly red gouge, about the width of a wand, weeping with pus..._

_...a wide white scar running from my elbow almost to my wrist as I stare at him and he raises an eyebrow and says that some lessons take a long time to sink in..._

Oh, God... I can't think. I want to run screaming from the room but it's as much as I can do to lower myself into the chair without collapsing.

He's watching me, standing on the other side of the desk with his arms folded.

He catches my gaze, raises an eyebrow. "Happy now?"

I close my eyes.

_...a hand on mine in the darkness... fingers feather-light on my neck... curling round my breast, squeezing... trailing down... and do you want me to continue, little one...  
NO!_

I blink.

He pushes the parchment across the table.

_You've got to be kidding!_

"I... Give me half an hour." My voice sounds surprisingly calm, miles from the stormy waves within. "I need to get my head straight."

"You will sign it _now_."

_Or you will regret it for the rest of your short and painful life._

_should you wish to indulge in rebelliousness here, you will pay for it_  
I do hope you're not going to get all excitable just because we've had a change of scene  
There are things I could take from you so much more painfully than mere blood  
Whatever you think I'm going to do to you, I can always make it worse

I shudder. I can't think straight. Daren't even try to think, until the stolen memories have settled back into their proper places.

If I can't focus, it might _weaken_ the contract.

And if I sign the damn thing, he can't hurt me.

_Yeah, right. There's bound to be a loophole._

But even if there is, he can't exploit it. Not if he wants the magic to work.

I reach for the quill.

My hand only shakes a little as I sign my name. I watch in silence as he adds his.

 _What am I_ doing?

Walking down a one-way path towards a rock wall I can't avoid.

He puts the quill aside. And suddenly there's a short silver knife in his hand.

 _...it slices into my arm and I try to jerk away but he's pressing my arm against the stone so I can't... and there's another bolt of rending agony as he_ twists _it..._

I sway, gripping the chair to anchor my giddiness.

I expect him to smirk at the fear on my face. But he's too... focussed.

"Normally," he tells me, "we'd activate the signatures with our wands, but as you no longer have yours, we need to revert to more - primitive - methods."

Yes, what did happen to my wand?

I search back between the bleached and blackened images.

_Oh._

I ought to hate him. But there's too much swirling round in my head to feel anything.

He draws the blade across his thumb. A drop of red oozes down the edge and drops onto the parchment.

_...drip drip dripping off my arm into a cauldron..._

Blood magic. Bugger. I must have learned something about blood magic.

But I daren't try to remember. Not yet.

He Scourgifies the blade, and passes it to me.

I watch myself take it and hold it against my thumb, over the signature.

I'm not sure I can do this. Unlike _some_ people, I don't make a habit of dodgy blood rituals.

_...kneeling beside him on the floor, reaching out for his wrist, touching a knife to his white skin..._

I press a little harder. It hurts.

 _It_ hurts? _Compared to everything else?_

It's not meant to be easy. That's the point.

The point. Hah.

I close my eyes, jerk my hand, and suck my breath in at the sudden sharp pain. When I look, there's a small drop of blood right at the edge of the parchment.

He holds out his hand. I pass him the knife, handle first. I feel- No, I don't feel anything. Is there even an 'I' left, now?

_Don't be ridiculous! It's not like there's so much difference between this and a Ministry employment contract!_

Except that it's with _him_.

 _Lucius Malfoy._ You can say the name, remember? We've been through all that.

_...I look up into his eyes and tell him, 'You do not own me, Lucius Malfoy'..._

He smirks. Oh, _now_ he smirks, now that he's got what he wanted. Bastard.

"That will do," he says. "Though your technique could do with improvement. We'll have to work on that."

Oh, God. Is that what he wants? There was something about blood before, wasn't there?

_Don't try to remember._

I'm not sure I want to, anyway.

I rub my temples.

When I look up, there's a folded piece of black silk on the table. A piece of black silk that - unless I'm happily mistaken - I've seen before.

My mouth is dry.

"Unwrap it," he says.

I pull it towards me, my fingers tingling in protest. I unfold the fabric, careful not to touch the _...small silver ring, deeply engraved with crooked, twisting runes...glinting in the grass next to a statue's shadow...dropping into my palm as my stomach lurches...waiting malevolently beside a frayed piece of rope..._

And now it's malignant in front of me, still taunting me with those strange shifting runes.

I glance at him.

"Now, pick it up and place it _here_." He points to my signature on the parchment.

I do as he says. Sleepwalking to oblivion, but awake.

He touches his wand to his own signature and mutters something I can't quite catch. A circle of black spreads out from the wandtip, singeing without flame until the whole parchment crumbles to ash. Which collapses further into a fine dust that rises into a bridge of smoke between the wand and the ring. And then it's absorbed into both of them and is gone.

_Get away from it! Run!_

But there's nowhere to run to. He'll have made sure of that.

The ring... I can't even see the runes now, though I know they're there. My eyes can't focus on them. Or won't.

I glance at him. He's watching me, head tilted slightly to one side.

"Usually," he says quietly, "our wands would seal the contract. But as you no longer have a wand, I've had to alter the magic slightly."

_...The word you're looking for is 'Repudio'...  
...silver flares as wood crumbles to falling ash-_

I blink.

_... as you no longer have a wand ..._

Bastard.

He flicks his wand and the ring floats in the air a few inches above the desk.

"Hold out your hand."

All I can do it stare at the ring, as if it's about to bite. Because it is.

"Your right hand."

_Don't think about it._

I stretch out my hand. He moves his wand; I'm shaking so much, I'm amazed he gets the ring anywhere near my ring finger, but it slides on easily.

I gasp as it shrinks onto my skin. I wasn't expecting it to be so _cold._

I don't have to try, to know that I won't be able to remove it. I wrap my left hand around it for warmth, but it doesn't help.

_Never mind the ring. What about the magic?_

At first I can't feel anything different, but then, on the edge of my mind... it feels like a Disillusionment Charm, trickling down through every cell in my body.

My gut instinct is to run away screaming. I suppress it; I can't run from myself.

He's watching me closely. I hope he can't see how much this is freaking me out.

He stands up. I close my eyes and listen to his soft footsteps on the carpet, watching the silver streaks of his spell sliding down my mind-

He touches my right arm. "Let go."

I open my eyes. He's reaching for my right hand. I'm still cradling it in my left. I let him take it.

_...You do realise that this hand belongs to me? ... Mine, to do as I like with..._

He touches the ring, sending my head spinning in a whirl of silver. I blink, trying to focus on him, on the bookcase, on anything that's outside my head - and then he's taking a step back, frowning.

"Don't fight it, Miss Granger. It won't help either of us."

But how can I _not_ fight it?

The ring burns cold. I suck in a breath.

"I said, don't fight it!"

I breathe deep. "Is it supposed to be this cold?"

"No, you silly girl, of course it's not! How would you get anything done?"

I stare at him.

He steps forward and slaps me.

The blow throws me back in the chair as I cry out and clutch my cheek.

What was that for?

 _...two red blotches high on his cheekbones as he screams_ How dare you! _and I stagger backwards from the blow... two strides and he catches me by the throat and hurls me against the wall..._

No... that was different. I think.

_Don't think._

He turns on his heel and strides to the other side of the room. I watch his robes swirl as he turns back towards me and readies his wand to cast-

But he doesn't. He just points it at me, six inches from my face.

_...Magic is my birthright, Mudblood - passed down through generations of undiluted wizard blood..._

I blink. He's still holding it there, unwavering.

It's me that's trembling.

What is he doing?

What did I do?

I hold myself still, everything focused on that length of smooth black wood, willing it not to move.

He takes a step back, sheaths his wand, says nothing.

It's another minute before I dare to look up at him.

His lips twitch. He's almost _smiling_ , the bastard!

"Better?" he asks.

What?

"The ring," he says. "Is it still cold?"

I feel it with my left hand, but I already know the answer. It's still cool, but it no longer feels as though it's been dipped in liquid nitrogen.

"Not as much," I tell him.

"Good. Now try not to focus on it. Don't force me to distract you again."

Distract... All that was to distract me?

Bastard. He couldn't just tell me a joke.

_Still, it worked, didn't it?_

With my hand on the back of the chair, I push myself to my feet. A mistake: my vision blurs and I have to grab the desk to stop myself from falling. I stay like that for a minute until I can see again, then turn to face him. Sitting while he's standing so close isn't comfortable.

It's hard not to think about the contract magic seeping through my mind. Like that challenge to not think of an elephant... I need to focus on something else.

"Are you going to tell me what you want me to do?" I ask.

"Ah." He tilts his head to one side. "Not yet. I think we'll wait until the contract is fully in place."

_Great. That's really going to stop me from thinking about it._

He frowns. "Tomorrow will be soon enough, Miss Granger. There's little point in going to the trouble of setting up a confidential contract if we then discuss confidential matters _before_ it takes hold. Now, if you think you can stand upright without clinging to my desk, let me show you to your room."

_'Let me show you to your room?' He makes it sound like a sodding hotel._

I glance at the window to steal one last look at the sky before he buries me again.

There's a _click_ from the corner of the room. 

The door is opening.

My stomach clenches; I tighten my grip on the desk. I don't think I can cope with the ferret when my head won't stop spinning.

But it isn't the ferret.

He moves behind me, puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Narcissa," he says, in a languid voice in which only those who know him well would hear an edge of irritation. "Didn't I tell you I was busy?"

"You did." She moves towards us, leaving the door open. His fingers curl into my shoulder.

She's as tall and elegant and toffee-nosed as I remember. I'm glad now that I couldn't do anything with my hair before. Not one strand of hers is out of place. Even if I'd had an hour, mine would have been a bird's nest in comparison: better not to even try.

She stops a few paces away, sweeping her gaze over me. "So, this is your pet Mudblood?" She glances at my shoulder. He removes his hand. "Scrawny little thing, isn't she?"

I stare at the carpet. I should stare her out but... I can't. _Those who know him well_ include her. She's done it with him, willingly - does she have any idea what he's done to me? Does she care? There was part of me that thought she'd have stopped it if she knew. Now I see that for the desperate fantasy it was.

"Look at me, girl."

I raise my head slowly. She sniffs, and raises her perfectly plucked eyebrows at her hus- at _him_.

"And you really think this creature can-"

"I thought I explained all that."

"Yes, Lucius," she says, and it gives me a strange shiver to hear his name from her lips, "you've given me several explanations. But I still don't see why you need to keep her in the house." She looks down her nose at me. "I'd have thought the kennels would be much more appropriate."

_You think you can hurt me with that? You've no idea, you stupid, stuck-up bitch..._

"With my pedigree Crups?" he drawls. "I think not."

I knew they were all as bad as him. I _knew_ it. And yet... it was almost easier to deal with the ferret. At least he was predictable. She wasn't - and the unpredictability offered a crack of hope.

Utterly false hope.

"You needn't be concerned," he's saying. "You never go near the East Wing anyhow. You won't even know she's there."

She's glaring at me as if I'm something nasty stuck on her shoe. "Please ensure that I don't."

She turns to sweep out of the room, but at the door she pauses to look back. "Oh, and supper's in an hour, dear, if you could be finished by then. At least, I trust you're not thinking of bringing _her_ to the table."

"No."

She waits for a moment, as if expecting something more. Then she lifts her chin and leaves, closing the door quietly behind her.

I keep my gaze fixed on the door. I daren't look at him. If I keep very still, perhaps we can pretend I never heard any of that.

He doesn't say anything either.

My legs feel like jelly. After a long minute, I have to lower myself into the chair.

And he finally moves, walking round the desk and taking a silky blue cloth from a drawer. He straightens up and looks at me.

Daring me to say something.

I stay silent.

He motions for me to stand up. When I do, he moves round behind me. And then I can't see as he pulls the cloth against my eyes and ties it tightly behind my head. I pull away in panic and reel against the desk.

 _Damn him!_ I'm still dizzy from the reknitting memories and his blasted contract: it was hard enough to stay upright when I could see where upright was.

My other senses strain to fill the darkness. All I can hear is his breathing and mine. Smell gives me furniture polish and _him_. Touch: the floor beneath my feet, reassuringly solid; the ring, a cool band around my finger; the desk, smooth to my touch. And then his hand, warm on my shoulder, making me shudder.

_Get away from me!_

But I don't have a choice.

_I belong to you..._

_...his hands clamping mine to the bed... the reek of his sweat... his teeth on my neck... and... and..._

This is different. It _is_. This time he can see.

And his fingers are just pulling on me slightly, a signal to stand, not gripping as if it were my soul he wanted to hold in his hand.

He nudges me to turn, to walk towards the door that _she_ went through.

Is he really not sending me back to that room? Or is this just one of his sick little games?

All I can feel is his hand resting on my shoulder, his carpet beneath my feet, his ring heavy on my finger, his silk binding my sight.

And all I can do is let him guide me through the dark.


	19. Commitment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has committed to work for Lucius. But what has Lucius committed to?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to everyone who has asked about this fic over the last (erm) seven years - it has meant more than I can say to know that you were still interested. I hope you enjoy it.

 

He may have bound my sight, but my mind is flooded with the smell and sound of the first new space I have been in for... weeks?

His boots click on stone... _and all I can see is a short stretch of wall to the empty corner of the room ... and I track every step as he circles me in the dark and I lash out with his wand and miss again and again ... as he follows me though his underground passage to hell ... paces towards the bed where I’m wishing I could shrink to nothing..._

I freeze for a moment. But the stone is smooth beneath my feet and the air smells of sun-warmed wood and polish, not dust and damp. And the boot-clicks are punctuated by the measured tick of an old clock.

No, we're not _there._ This is just a normal room in his house. Though last time he took me for a walk we started on a 'normal lawn' and ended up in nightmare.

_He's supposed to protect you now._

Like I believe that. And like it's any comfort to think about that contract when I still have no idea what I've agreed to do.

Another doorway: the rustling of his robe louder to my ears as we pass through. There's a fireplace in this room – I can't feel the heat but I can hear the flames crackle and the wood spit. And I can smell the smoke _...as I sit by the common room fire watching the glow fade before going up to bed..._

But his hand on my shoulder anchors me here, bidding me swerve left or right with a pressure so slight I have to strain to sense it.

My leg brushes something solid. A chair? What is in this room: stately home treasures, or Dark Arts horrors?

To him – to _them_ – they're probably the same.

Another door – there's a faint creak as it opens for us. Once we're through, he pulls back on my shoulder. I stop.

He lets go. _Thank God._ I clamp down on the urge to shake my arm, to shake off the memory of his touch.

And then his hand is on my right wrist and his robe brushes my ankle and I can _feel_ him behind me _...and he turns my hand over in his then strokes along each of my fingers in turn..._

_Don't touch me!_

I jerk away, twisting my hand to break his grip – but his fingers clamp tight.

 _Stupid, stupid..._ stupid _girl! Didn’t I tell you not to leave the path?..._

I cringe against his displeasure, waiting for a slap, a spell, a sneer.

_You can do anything..._

I can’t bring myself to speak into the silence, to plead that I didn’t mean to react like that, but I need to show him somehow.

I bow my head.

_I belong to you._

I hate myself.

All I can hear is my breathing, and his breathing.

And then he lifts my hand up and forward and there's smooth, hard wood under my fingers. 

He lets go and nudges me forward. My toe bumps something solid. I almost lose my balance but my right hand grips the wooden rail.

Stairs. He couldn't just _tell_ me. Why isn't he talking to me?

His hand is on my shoulder again, guiding me to ascend. So we do – me lifting my robe with my left hand and feeling for each tread with my foot, he following behind, a shadowy presence looming somehow so much larger because I can't _see_.

_Here comes the candle to light you to bed, Here comes the chopper to-_

Feel for stair with right toe. Lift right foot. Slide it onto the tread. Straighten knee and shift weight. Feel for stair with left foot...

There's a faint smell of roasting chicken coming from somewhere.

God, I'm hungry. When was the last time I ate?

_...You know we mustn’t forget to feed our pets, Draco..._

Feel for stair with right foot...

But there isn't another. I'm at the top of the staircase. My foot comes down hard; I stumble forward. And float. My hands flail in empty air _... and his eyes meet mine for the briefest horrible instant and then I am spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning..._

Heavy steps behind me. I'm floating upright now, I think, spinning slowly.

_What the hell is he playing at?_

As if the memories, and the contract and... everything else weren't disorienting enough?

My feet touch the floor. I sway, trying to keep my balance. The stairs could be one step away in any direction.

My hand brushes something soft. And I feel so dizzy that I'll fall if I don't grab on, so I cling to that anchor of stillness until I'm sure which way is up.

Until I realise that I'm leaning on _him._

I push myself away just as he grips my wrists to hold me steady at arm’s length _...as blood wells up between his fingers and runs down to drip drip drip from my elbow..._

I shake my head. There's no pain. No blood. Not now.

He turns me around, pushes me forwards, then left, and then carpet muffles our steps to silence.

At last – after a slow minute, or ten – he touches my shoulder. I stop; he steps around me. A door opens on the right. We walk through.

The door closes behind us. I wait for his signal to walk on, but it doesn't come.

Silence.

He's just standing there, watching me.

Fine. I've had weeks of waiting in the dark. I can handle this.

_...forced to stand with my nose to the wall as he stands just behind me and I wait, wait, wait while he revels in just how intimidating it is to have him breathing down my neck when I can’t even see him – and then lays his wand on my neck..._

Bastard.

Didn't he say something about not playing games?

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, bracing myself for a cutting remark.

It doesn't come.

Maybe he's not here at all.

And if he's not here – what is?

I hold my breath. Silence.

Silence.

"Mr Malfoy?"

Well, he didn't exactly tell me not to speak. He just stopped speaking to me. And he doesn't sound as if he's about to start.

Nor, thankfully, does anything else.

Oh, this is ridiculous! If he's here, he's just trying to mess with my head when he said he wouldn't, and if he's not, it doesn't make any difference anyhow.

I fumble with the knot of the blindfold, half expecting him to seize my wrists and hiss out a punishment. And for a moment I think I feel his hands on mine and I freeze – but then the blindfold comes free.

The whiteness almost hurts _... It’s so_ bright _. Everything glitters with frost..._

I blink.

This room is about the same size as that other room, but that’s the only similarity. Everything here is white: white carpet, white walls, white embroidered bedspread on the four-poster in the far corner, white fireplace to my left with a huge mirror above to reflect the whiteness, white coffee table beside the fire holding a white tray with white crockery...

But all I have eyes for is the window.

A window.

Twelve square panes of glass, three wide by four tall.

I glance behind me. He’s not there.

Dare I...?

_For God's sake, he left you here, didn't he?_

It might not even be a real window. Maybe it's like the ones in the Ministry that Harry told us about.

The light is real though, wherever it comes from.

I kneel on the window seat and press my palm to the pane. It's cold. I rest my forehead there, afraid for a moment to look at what's beyond.

Then I look, and the beauty of it brings tears to my eyes.

Oh, it's nothing special: just a walled garden and a lawn beyond and a group of bare-branched trees over to the left, their shadows pointing away as if their spirits are trying to escape the soil they are bound in. But it's green and alive and for the first time in God knows how long there's no sign of _him._

 _I need to breathe._ I need to breathe deep of clean air, to hear birdsong and smell plants instead of dust, to see the sun _...to place my hands flat on the frozen ground..._

I wrestle with the window. It doesn't budge.

_Well, what did you expect?_

I didn't 'expect' anything. I _need_ \- I just need-

To know that it's _real._ Normal.

A tear rolls down my cheek. I can feel myself trembling - I can't hold it in any longer. The awful blanks in my memories, the strange familiarity as they came back, the horror at what they’re showing me, the unknown threat of the contract, the... what happened last night: all of it pours through me in heaving sobs.

I wish I could drown in it.

I hug my legs tight. All the time I was trapped down there, I never knew what he was going to do next. And I still don't know. Why does this feel so different?

Because this whole bright room is a lie to hide the evil in this house, and I don’t know if tomorrow I'll be facing the lie or the dark. Down there at least I knew to expect the dark _...his hand between my legs... his teeth on my neck... the-_

I dig my fingernails into my wrist, focus on the small clean pain. I can't think about what happened in that place. Not if I want to survive.

And I need to eat. I investigate the tray beside the fire; there's a plate of cold chicken and cold vegetables, and a glass of water. I nibble slowly, savouring each bite, concentrating on what is here and now.

This room is too big, too bright. There's nowhere to hide _...from four booted feet, framed by the bed I’m hiding under..._

There is another door, though, in the wall between the window and the door I came in by. I try the handle. Miracle of miracle, it opens.

Behind is a bathroom. Not much bigger than the other one, but carpeted, and the claw-footed bathtub is raised up a step. 

And it has its own window. With the same view as the other one, though at a slightly different angle. So the view is either real, or a very, very skilled fake.

I’m not sure which would be better. My heart needs it to be real, but to be able to see outside but not get there...

_...You belong to me. Do you want me to prove it?..._

He worked so hard to make me hate him. And now... now, he's almost pretending to be reasonable. Is he trying to make me not hate him now?

I wish I could vow to hate him forever. But I can't even do that.

 _..."See how much she hates me?" he gloats...  
..."I _ won't _hate you, Lucius Malfoy." A talisman against the dark..._

 _Damn him!_ I punch the wall. The pain is almost enough to distract me from the claustrophobia, the knowledge that however more comfortable this place is – _and it is_ – I'm still trapped. Trapped in a silver-plated cage.

I watch through the bars while the sky darkens from rose, to lavender, to indigo.

It's dark by the time I turn away. Not completely dark – by now I know the difference only too well. As I turn back to the room I can make out the shape of the bed. I climb up onto it and watch the light fade to almost-black.

_...You thought we were finished, didn't you? On the contrary, Hermione. We've only just begun..._

.

_CRACK!_

The room is bright. I roll off the bed, frantically straightening my robe – but he isn't here. It's daylight I'm seeing. And I'm smelling... toast?

_Where am I?_

The window. I remember the window. Filling the room with harsh light.

It feels odd to be in the light when he's not here. As if he must be watching, waiting...

I rub my eyes, run my hand over the embroidered counterpane. If this is an illusion, it’s a very good one.

And that ring is heavy on my finger.

And he said the games are over.

_Right. And you believed that?_

Well, one thing hasn’t changed: I still don’t know what the hell he’s up to.

The tray by the fireplace has been replaced; it looks like I was right about the toast. It’s accompanied by a glass of pumpkin juice, a pot of tea and a small bowl of porridge. And a small envelope. Inside is an even smaller note.

_~ ~ ~_

_Dear Miss Granger,_

_I trust you slept well._

_Be ready by 9am._

_LM_

_~ ~ ~_

What the...? As if he’s ever given a toss about how I’ve slept!

_Though if he really needs you to work on something..._

Oh, what’s the use? When have I ever been able to second-guess him? I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.

Just the thought makes me feel ill. I... He...

_I belong to you._

The memory sends ice through my veins. How can I work for him when at any moment he... 

All I want to do is crawl under the bed and hide.

_Yeah, 'cos that worked so well last time you tried it._

Nine o’clock. It would have helped if he’d left me some way of telling the time.

I’m sure the toast is very nice, and there’s jam that looks homemade, or elfmade I suppose. But I'm too tense to eat. I manage a few mouthfuls and about half of the pumpkin juice. I can’t touch the tea.

Nine o’clock.

I go to the bathroom and splash water on my face. There’s a mirror above the sink; my hair is a mess but in the absence of a brush there’s not much I can do about that.

I wish I could put on a better mask. How can I possibly face him looking like this? Feeling like this?

_...Well, well, Hermione. That was delicious..._

God, I'd like to spit on _him_.

I can’t think about it.

_Crack!_

Nine o’clock?

I don't want to go.

_You don’t have a choice._

I dry my face and hurry back to the bedroom. But he's not there. Neither is the breakfast tray. But in front of the door is a house-elf, standing proud in a starched white pillowcase. Its – or her, or his? – ears curl slightly at the sight of me.

"The Mudblood is to be taken to the Master now."

I bristle at the word. I expect it from _them_ , but from a fellow-prisoner... Still, living here it probably has to talk like that.

I crouch down. "Hello, I’m Hermione. What’s your name?"

It curls its ears in so much, they almost covers its eyes. "The Mudblood is only to be talking to the Master. The Mudblood must come now." It holds out a bony hand.

I flinch back.

But I have to go. I have to face him. I have to force myself to do it the same way as I've forced myself to stand up and face him after every other horror he's thrown at me.

_Brave words._

Well, if I can't manage a brave heart, brave words will have to do.

I reach out towards the elf. Strong fingers wrap around mine and in a dizzying second we’re wrenched from white to black.

With another _crack,_ it’s gone.

For a moment I panic at the sight of the stone floor. But I can see, so I can’t be back _there_ – and anyhow, this room is quite different.

The first thing that hits me is the smell – herbs and flowers and burnt stuff instead of dust and ingrained fear. It’s a long room, stone floored, with a long workbench down the middle. High up on the opposite wall is a line of foot-high windows. Below them every inch of wall is hidden by shelves, stacked deep with bottles and vials and scales and cauldrons. At the end of the room is an old wooden desk and a chair. And seated on the other side, a familiar dark figure with a mane of white-blond hair.

My mouth goes dry.

He beckons me forward without a word. I try to meet his gaze, but...

No. I can't let him win. I may feel as if I'm about to throw up, but I _will_ face him.

I'm feeling cold as I sit. I will myself not to shake.

The desk is bare except for a long, narrow box. He pushes it towards me.

"Hex me."

"What?"

I gape at him. Does this mean there's a wand in that box? Is there some memory he didn’t return that would make sense of that?

He laces his fingers together. "You heard me," he snaps. "Don’t make me repeat myself."

But did he really say...

_Bad idea. REALLY bad idea._

I open the box. There actually is a wand inside.

Vine wood. Eleven inches. But not mine.

I glance at him. His lips are pressed together, his eyes slightly narrowed.

I pick up the wand. I feel the faintest tingle of magic – this wand would work for me, but it doesn’t particularly like me.

I put it back in the box.

He leans forward. "Do it."

This is surreal.

I meet his gaze. "Why? You'll only punish me if I do."

"The question you should be asking, Miss Granger, is what I will do if you don't. And I would advise you not to test me for the answer."

Always the bloody sneering superiority! God, how I _want_ to hex him, to grind him into the ground, to hit back for what he-

_Don’t go there._

I am shaking now as I pick up the wand. I do not want to do this.

I'll cast something painless and reversible. At least then he can't-

_You're not seriously going to do it._

I look up at him. His hands are locked tight together. He looks as tense as I feel.

But why? If he's afraid of what I'll do, why order me to do it?

I'm so, so sick of his games! Anger surges through me as I flick the wand-

But what’s the point? Do I really think he's going to let me hurt him?

I put the wand down.

He frowns. "Do it, Miss Granger. We haven't got all day."

_No._

But he means it. God knows why, but he does.

Okay. I don't need to want to do it, I just need to do it so we can get onto whatever the next movement is in this _danse macabre_. 

The wand feels heavier when I pick it up; as I swish and flick it's like stirring treacle.

_"Locomotor Mortis."_

A wisp of power eddies to nothing.

He just splays his fingers on the desk and looks at me, but there's no fury or even contempt in his eyes.

A muscle in his cheek twitches. He leans back.

"So, Miss Granger." He pauses. "It appears the contract is in place. The wand is yours, but as you've just seen, you can't use it against me, so I'd advise you not to waste your time trying. In fact, you won't be able to use it for anything I don’t want you to."

I swallow.

Hang on. He – the one who tortured me into oblivion because he couldn't accept I was a witch – he's given me a _wand_?

Why?

I meet his gaze. "So what do you want me to use it for?"

His hands clench, and relax.

"You already know that."

"No, M-Mr Malfoy, I don't. You wouldn't tell me yesterday."

He glares at me. "I'm not talking about yesterday. Do I really need to spell it out for you?"

_Yes, actually you do._

I cast my mind back. What has he talked to me about, apart from the evils of the Muggle world and the superiority of purebloods? Hagalaz vectors, history, Binding magic, twisted justifications for the Dark Arts...

I'm really tired of guessing games. Why's he being so bloody cryptic?

We're in some kind of potions lab. He's given me a wand.

"You want me to brew potions for you?"

He rolls his eyes. "If necessary."

Necessary for _what_?

I might be tempted to hex him properly after all.

He leans forward, as if to speak – and then Summons a small box from a nearby shelf. It's filled with glittering green powder.

"I can't spare a house-elf to be at your beck and call," he says, putting the box down in front of me. "You can use the Floo to get between here and your room. I've isolated the connection from the rest of the network, so don't try to go anywhere else. This is the Still Room and you are staying in the White Room. Is that clear?"

 _Still Room, White Room._ I nod. "But-"

"I expect you to work on your own; you should find sufficient equipment and basic ingredients here. I will make regular visits, and I _will_ expect progress to have been made. If you need anything specific you can ask me then. Is there anything you might need in the meantime?"

_Erm... information?_

Is he trying to wriggle out of the contract? If he doesn't define the task, how can it ever be finished?

My fingers close around the wand. I may not be able to use it against him, but it makes me feel more like a witch, an adult, an equal-

No, not an equal. But something more than a prisoner.

"If you want me to work for you, you have to tell me what you need me to do."

His nostrils flare. I keep my eyes fixed on his. He stares back at me.

He looks away first.

His eyes lose focus for a moment. Then he blinks, turns to his right and Summons two books. He drops them on the desk between us.

"There! Does that help?"

I snatch my hands away. I've seen those two books before, and would have been quite happy never to have seen them again.

What was it he said after the time he trapped me with _The Black Book of Binding_? 'I don’t need your help, I’m just curious about your "unique perspective" on a few matters of minor interest'?

Is that what he's getting at? Looks like he's decided he does need my help after all.

_Oh, he needs help, all right._

"You want me to learn Binding magic?"

"Oh, hoorah. You do have a brain."

I fold my arms. "Why are you making me guess? Do you really want me to do whatever it is?"

His mouth twists. "Of course I-"

He stands, leaning over the desk, his eyes on a level with mine and only twelve inches away.

_Too close._

I'm shaking. But I refuse to move. Even if every atom in my body is screaming at me to run away.

"Let me make one thing clear," he says. "The fact that your living arrangements are a little more comfortable than they were previously does not give you the right to question my motives. Particularly in matters of which you have no understanding."

I don't want to be this close. I never wanted to be this close. But I can't look away.

I don't want to know, but I must.

"What do you want me to bind?"

He pushes himself upright and looks up at the ceiling. "I don't want you to bind, idiot girl! I want you to _un_ bind!"

I blink.

He looks down at me. He takes a long slow breath. And then another.

"Or to be more precise, Miss Granger, I want you to loosen. _If_ you can."

He sits, folds his arms, and watches me.

 _If_ I can? Is this another impossible task?

But why would he go to all the trouble of setting up the contract if he didn't want to get something out of it?

_He did. Your binding agreement not to leave until the task is finished._

And if the task can't be finished...

Shit.

That _bastard!_

I half feel I'm going to dissolve in tears. The other half wants to punch his face.

But the look on his face stops me short. I'm expecting a smug grin, or at least some trace of self-satisfaction as he revels in the way he's trapped me. Instead, he's frowning.

"What's your problem?" he sneers. "You were quite able to attempt the impossible before. Was that all you could do? Or are you just unwilling to do it for me?"

Attempt the impossible? All I've done is try to survive. If that's what he means, I can't see how he expects me to apply it to him.

I've had enough of this. "If you actually told me what you want, maybe I could answer that."

His eyes narrow. He rests his chin in his hand and watches me... no, not me. He's focused elsewhere.

But then he does look at me. "What I want," he says, dragging out the words, "is for you to apply your theory of reversible Hagalaz Vectors to the practice of Binding magic."

He waits.

Reversible Hagalaz Vectors...

_"Not if I reverse the Vector," I say, defying his plan to tangle me in hate.  
A mocking laugh in response. "That's impossible!"_

And he'd tried so hard for that to be true, tried so hard to make it impossible for me not to hate him.

 _"If you really want to waste your time trying to change that, don’t let me stop you. No one can reverse that sort of working once it’s started, Mudblood._ No one. _"_  
  
But I proved him wrong. Not by reversing a spell, but by stepping aside from hate.

I can't help but shiver at the memory: the first time he touched me, the first time he used my name, that dark hunger in his eyes...

_"Well, well, well, Hermione. What an endlessly entertaining creature you are."_

And then... but I'm not thinking about that. I'm thinking about _The Black Book of Binding_. About the way he tried to tempt me with the forbidden fruit of Dark Magic.

_You wouldn’t turn your back on an opportunity to further your knowledge._

But I would. I don't want to learn how to take another's will with fear or love or the need to belong.

To learn to reverse that kind of spell, though? No-one could object to that. Except that to learn how to reverse it I'd have to understand how it's done in the first place. I'd have to learn what he wanted me to learn. And now I don't have a choice in the matter, thanks to his sodding contract.

He's still watching me, the slightest frown betraying his impatience.

 _I want you to_ un _bind._

But unbind what? A curse? A charm?

A vow?

He's still resting his chin in his hand, elbow on the table. His sleeve must be Charmed not to slip down, but I know what's behind it.

_That's ridiculous. He would never-_

But the expression on his face is serious. Tense. He's afraid I'll refuse.

_But you can't._

No. He's not afraid I'll refuse. It's not me he's afraid of at all.

I grip the seat of the chair. If I'm wrong, he'll probably kill me. But if I'm right...

I can't afford not to know.

I watch his hands carefully. I know I can't defend myself with this wand, but any warning might help.

"You want me to reverse the Dar-"

"Don't say that!"

I flinch back. But he doesn't seem angry. And if I was wrong, I'd expect outrage at least.

But does that mean I'm right?

He looks just the same, but suddenly it's as if I don't know him at all.

"So-"

"You can't say things like that!"

Because heaven forbid we could actually be clear about this. It's only a 'matter of minor interest', after all. Nothing that could possibly prove the least bit harmful to him or to me.

"Why not? Nobody can overhear us."

His lip curls. "The Dark Lord always knows."

I... I don't want to think about that.

He leans back. "In any case, Miss Granger, reversal is putting it a bit strongly. The consequences of _that_ could well be fatal – for you as well as for me. As I said before, what I require of you is more of a – loosening."

"What do you mean, exactly?"

He looks at his hands for a moment before meeting my gaze.

Then he looks down again. "No. We don't need to discuss that now."

And what does he think I'm going to be able to do before he deigns to talk to me?

I try again. "Why-"

His head snaps up. "My motives are none of your concern!"

Yes they bloody well are! If he's asking me to do what I think he's asking me to do, if Voldemort's second-in-command isn't as loyal as everyone thinks he is, that has to make it easier to defeat him.

_He didn't say he wants to defeat him, he said he wants to be free of him. Or freer._

Same thing. Voldemort doesn't let people just walk away.

_But 'loosening' doesn't mean walking away, does it?_

So what _is_ he plan-

He stands abruptly. "You don't need to think about it, Miss Granger. You just need to do it. I will expect to see some progress when I next visit."

"But-"

But he's gone.

_You don't need to think about it._

But I do.

I stand up and walk the length of the room – twice as far as I could walk in any direction in that other place. With the added bonus of being able to see.

But that doesn't help me know what to think. He's evil. He hates me for no good reason – he's made that brutally clear, over and over and over. That hasn't changed. And yet...

No. He's no less terrible. But he's not quite what I'd thought, either.

If he means it.

And that's what makes no sense. He's the most bigoted, vicious, racist person I've ever had the misfortune to come across. A Death Eater, through and through. So what's he doing even thinking of tampering with the Dark Mark?

_Does it matter?_

On one level, no. He's set me a task and under the terms of the contract I have to do it whether I like it or not. And, all things considered, it could have been a lot worse. Essentially, he's asking me to work _against_ Dark Magic. So, even trapped here, I have a chance to strike a blow for the Light.

The only catch is that I'm stepping back into the war on his side.

No, not just on his side. If he goes against Voldemort, that has to work to our advantage, surely?

_Perhaps this why they left you here._

_Perhaps that's why they let him take you in the first place._

No. No. I will not believe that.

And I'm not sure I believe him, either. It makes no sense. What if this is all another of his twisted games?

I examine the shelves. There’s stacks of cauldrons, a mess of glass bulbs and pipes that must be the distilling apparatus this room is named for, and a wide variety of potions ingredients – all the basics and several I've never heard of. There are also a few gaps in the rows of jars, which makes me wonder what's been removed and why.

But the bigger question is what he expects me to do with all this stuff. What have potions got to do with the Dark Mark?

But maybe they do. I don't really know much about the Dark Mark. Unfortunately, the only way I can find out about it is to ask him.

_Good luck with that._

Better to concentrate on the theory, then: applying reversed Hagalaz Vectors to Binding Magic. From what he made me read in the _Black Book_ , house-elf binding, at least, relies on a certain amount of emotional manipulation, which is basically what Hagalaz Vectors describe.

So if some emotional states can Bind, can others Unbind?

Brilliant. He wants me to brew a potion to make him a nicer person.

As if.

Still, it's actually quite an interesting problem. There's just so much I don't know – about Binding, about Voldemort's own nasty form of it, about _him_.

Well, I already know more about him than I ever wanted to.

_Only the worst side of him._

But is there anything beyond hate and contempt and pureblood pride?

_You'd better hope there is, if you don't want to fail._

No. How can I even _think_ about this? I know what’s behind the hate and contempt and pureblood pride. More hate, more contempt, a cold disregard for anyone who stands in his way. And... and...

_Don’t think about that._

Right. I can’t afford to go anywhere near... what happened down there.

But it HAPPENED! How can I even _contemplate_ looking for something beyond his monstrosities when he’s _shown_ me just how much of a monster he is?

_You belong to me..._

I shudder, wrap my arms around my chest.

_Breathe, Hermione._

Okay. I can’t go there. That was done to someone else by someone else. I need to find out who _this_ someone is.

Even thinking that feels like a betrayal. But it isn't. This isn't acceptance and it isn't forgiveness: it's survival.

But what chance do I have if he keeps refusing to talk to me?

Well, there's not much I can do about that right now. About all I have to go on at the moment are the books. Maybe they'll help me come up with some questions he will condescend to answer.

There aren't many books on the shelf where _An Introduction to Thanatonic Magical Theorie_ and _The Black Book of Binding_ came from, and they all concern potions: advanced textbooks, a very large book that I've seen at the Weasleys' called _Home Brews:_ _Remedies for Everywizard_ and a battered copy of _Moste Potente Potions._ Nothing else on Dark Magic.

_Maybe those books are too dangerous._

Maybe he just doesn't want me reading them.

But he must have better books than this. He lives in a manor house – he has to have a decent library, right?

Not that he ever struck me as the reading kind.

Though he did claim to have read Bridget Wenlock’s _Triskaidekology._ If he’s got something that rare, surely he’s got others? He has to value books as a status symbol if nothing else.

Maybe I can play on that to get access to the library. If there is a library. And maybe there’ll be a book there that will tell me more about this contract he’s trapped me in.

_Like he won’t have thought of that?_

It’s still worth a try. But he’s not going to let me see any more books unless I can persuade him that these don’t have what I need.

So, he’s left me _The Black Book of Binding_ , which should tell me about what I need to undo, and _An Introduction to Thanatonic Magical Theorie,_ which he thinks will show me how do undo it. I’d better start with _The Black Book_. Then at least I’ll have a clue about what I’m looking for in the mishmash of dry formulae that make up the other one.

But how the heck do I do that without getting sucked in? I can’t imagine he’ll be very happy if he comes back in three days’ time and finds me stuck there.

And I can’t let that happen if I’m to have a hope of him taking me seriously. Or of allowing me access to his other books.

Is this a test, then?

_Doesn’t matter. Either way you have to pass it._

I have a wand, at least. So I can turn the pages without touching the book. But that won’t be enough. Even when he was turning the pages for me I felt compelled to keep reading. I need to stop myself touching it. And I need to find a way to make myself stop reading.

I'd love to see Ron and Harry's faces if they heard me say that...

_Better not think about them._

True. I need to focus on this. And I don’t want to think about them while I’m stuck here. This place would taint my memories of them, and I couldn’t bear that.

There’s a repelling charm I could use to keep a distance between the book and me. But I don’t know whether it would still work if I used _Accio_ , and anyhow I could always just end the spell. Perhaps that would force me to break concentration from the book enough to break its hold, but I can’t risk that. Unless I could make the repulsion permanent... but I’d need to read the book to find out how to do that.

I should learn that anyway. Then I could use it on him.

_He wouldn’t let you._

Stupid contract.

I’m thinking about this all wrong. Touching the book makes it worse, certainly, but whether I’m touching it or not, the important thing is to find a way to stop reading. I need some sort of alarm, then. One that will shut the book after a set time.

But it’s not possible to set spells to activate in the future – it’s too separate from the will of the caster. Which is just as well, really. There’d be utter chaos otherwise.

_Potions can have delayed effects._

Yes, but...

I pace to the other end of the room. Inspiration doesn’t strike; I can’t see another way round this. I need to stop reading not because the book closes, but because I can no longer read.

I pull _Home Brews:_ _Remedies for Everywizard_ from the bookshelf, and turn to the section on sleeping potions.

I don’t want to do this.

_But you have to._

I check the instructions for a potion that will give me half an hour of reading before sending me into oblivion. Using less valerian root should give me a little more time.

I check the shelves; all the ingredients I need are here. I set up a cauldron on the long bench, then go back to the desk to pick up the wand.

I turn it over in my hand. The last time I was alone with a wand, it was his. I was such an idiot, thinking I could use it to take him on. That moment when I thought the Portkey was working... I can hardly remember what it felt like.

_Don’t think about it. Hope hurts too much._

I line up the ingredients in the order I’ll need them. I find a knife in a drawer and carefully chop the valerian roots.

How ironic that I thought I’d be brewing potions for him to take, and here I am preparing to send myself to sleep.

_Get on with it, Hermione._

I’m afraid, I realise. Not just of the sleeping potion, but of the wand. In a way it’s more his than _his_ was. Will using it damage my magic in some way? Will it even work for me?

_He would hardly give you a wand he didn’t want you to use._

As if anything he does makes any sense.

I swish the wand to get the feel of it. It doesn’t spark, but that doesn’t surprise me; this wand didn’t choose me, after all. Other than that, it moves like mine – physically, that is. Magically it’s completely different: a dull glow instead of a living light.

It moves through the air okay as I cast the fire spell under the cauldron. So that feeling before of moving through treacle must have been because I was using it against him.

But the spell doesn’t work.

I try again, focusing on my intentions in case it might make a difference. _I’m not trying to burn your house down. This spell is not going to hurt you._

A small blue flame flickers and dies.

Am I just out of practice? This is one of my best spells! What’s he done to me?

If he’s watching me somehow, he must be having a right laugh.

_You know you can do this. Magic is part of you. He can’t take that away._

Right. I’ll show him.

I concentrate hard on making the movement as precise as possible, visualising exactly where I want the flame to appear, enunciating clearly...

_“Adolebelle.”_

And it works! Oh, thank God!

I quickly add the first ingredients to the cauldron.

The flame burns steadily. I can’t believe what a relief it is to see it there.

And I can’t believe how hard it was! Usually it’s as if my wand already knows what I want and the magic just flows as soon as I start the movement. But this time I almost had to force it out. Is that what magic feels like for Neville? How it was for Ron, when he was using his brother’s wand?

Is it so difficult because the wand didn’t choose me? Or because of the controls _he_ put on my use of it?

Or is it because I Repudiated my own wand?

I really hope that's not it. I need to learn more about Repudiation – add that to the list of things to look up if I can get access to more books. In the meantime, I've got to read about Marking.

I stir the potion carefully, watching the bubbles circle on the surface. It’s changing colour just as the book says it should.

There’s a sweet-sharp ache in my chest. I blink back tears.

What’s the matter with me? I’ve never made this particular potion before, and it doesn’t smell of anything memorable. And while I enjoyed potions, on the whole, it was never my favourite lesson.

Maybe it’s just some weird side-effect.

And then I realise that, just for a moment, I was happy.

No. Not ‘happy’, not here. But just that brief satisfaction at a job well done, a task that had nothing to do with _him_ – well, as little to do with him as anything can be here – I’d forgotten what that feels like.

_Right. So don’t spoil it by going to pieces now._

I blink again. Then I turn away from the bench.

There are a few dusty bottles on one of the shelves. I rinse and Scourgify them, then pour a dose of the potion carefully into each. That should keep me going for a while.

While the potion cools, I search the shelves. It doesn’t take me long to find parchment, some ink and a quill, and a couple of glass slides.

I cast the spell that will enlarge the slides. The magic is still sluggish, but not nearly as bad as before. Turning them into mirrors is a little trickier but seems to work okay.

So now I need to deal with the book.

It's the top one of the two on the desk. I almost feel like it's staring at me, daring me - I'm raising my wand, I realise, as if to fend off the _Monster Book of Monsters._ Which would be a heck of a lot easier to deal with.

I levitate the book to the workbench. It wobbles a little, but thankfully I don't feel in any danger of dropping it. I place the mirrors beside it.

The other book I return to the shelf; now I just need to position the desk. I move the small box of Floo Powder to the safety of the mantelpiece, then I drag the desk and its chair closer to the workbench. The scrape of wood on stone is loud in the silence.

I arrange the parchment, quill and ink neatly on the desk.

I look at the row of cooling bottles.

I can’t avoid this any longer.

I pick up the rightmost bottle and sit at the desk, facing the book. I can feel its malevolence – a snake coiled ready to strike.

But no. This time I’m the one who’s going to strike.

_So do it._

I unstopper the bottle and gulp down the contents. A slight medicinal taste, but I don’t feel any different.

Yet.

A careful flick of the wand lifts the mirrors into the air. I position one above the book and the other just in front of the bench, nudging them so that I can see the book cover reflected in the lower one. It’s a bit fiddly, but that’s good: if my concentration breaks then the mirrors will fall, and I will lose my view of the book.

The book.

It’s time - and I don’t have much of that.

Another wandflick and the book opens. The mirrors wobble a little; I turn to the contents page and wait for the image to settle.

He made me read about House-Elf Enslavement before, so he must think it relevant to what he wants me to do – unless he was just taunting me with a subject he knew I’d hate. But in any case, this time it’s the following chapter that catches my eye: Chapter Thirteen, on Marking.

I turn the pages carefully, keeping the mirrors as steady as I can and making the briefest glances at the book so I don’t get sucked in before I reach the part I want to read.

Not that I _want_ to read any of it.

_Are you sure about that?_

Not entirely. But only because the weird binding magic on the book makes me want to read it.

Not that it matters. I need to know about that sort of magic if I’m to have any chance of working against it.

Here goes, then.

**_Chapter Thirteen: Marking_ **

_Marking has long been used to denote membership of a tribe or group, even among the most primitive of Muggles. But only the superior abilities of wizards have elevated the Mark beyond the merely symbolic. Embedding magic into a Mark is a most useful art that can serve to protect the bearer, enhance his or her abilities, or to closely bind Marked members of a group._

_Binding Marks have been used for centuries to secure beasts to their Masters, and the magic involved has become ever more subtle since the work of Clarinda the Cruel on Ownership Brands opened the way for attitudinal modification of Marked House-Elves. In recent years, of course, visible Marking of House-Elves has fallen out of fashion as it has come to be seen as a sign of a coerced servant rather than a loyal one, though House-Elves themselves continue to prefer the security it implies. It is therefore highly recommended that wizards and witches of good breeding master the technique._

_Likewise, many esoteric societies eschew visible Marks of membership, considering the dedication needed to complete membership rituals to be more deeply binding. Others, most notably the Knights of Walpurgis, value Marking as a public sign of commitment._

I should stop and take notes, but I can’t take my eyes off the page.

_However, Marks of membership can have uses beyond a simple badge of belonging. As an example, introducing a Binding spell into a Marking ritual can ensure that Marked group members meet their obligations to the society and keep its secrets. As it takes great power to perform such a spell, the ritual also serves to legitimise the position of the group leader._

 _Marks of membership are usually embedded using enchanted ink, but the caster’s blood can be used in lieu of ink as a base for a Binding Mark. This makes the Mark impossible to reverse, but as esoteric societies typically require a lifetime commitment that is rarely an issue._

I still can’t look away from the book. I feel for the quill and parchment, and blindly summarise the last two paragraphs. There are a few possibilities for research here.

Providing, of course, that Mr Enigmatic Bastard deigns to tell me how, exactly, he was given his mark in the first place.

Using blood sounds like something Voldemort would do. But does that really make it impossible to reverse? Or is that just what Phineas Nigellus thought? Because if it was impossible, Professor Snape wouldn't have been able to spy... would he?

_A Protean Charm cast on the substance to be used for Marking makes the Mark mutable at the will of the caster; the utility of such a Mark for communicating instantaneously with widely scattered group members is self-evident._

I write quickly. I can barely stop myself reading ahead.

I stifle a yawn.

_When embedding a Binding spell in a Mark, a clear focus on both sides is of paramount importance, as Binding is strongest when Binder and Bound fully agree on and fully consent to the intent of the Binding. Ideally, a Legilimens should be present, as is customary at most rituals of membership._

I hope these 'rituals of membership' he keeps mentioning are covered somewhere else in the book. If intent is that important...

I rest my head on the desk.

Well, that would explain Professor Snape, wouldn't it? But it doesn't help with _him._ Not unless he'll explain exactly what his intentions were when he let Voldemort brand him, and that’s about as likely as... as...

I blink, shake my head, steady the mirrors. I'm running out of time. I have to read.

_However, as with other forms of Binding, an efficacious Binding Mark is possible with little or consent on the part of the Bound; indeed, there is sane element of compulsion in almost every Blinding, as the intentions of Binder and Bound rarely align completely. The greater the disparity in tent, the greater the greater the strength required of the caster; it is for this treason that Bound servants tend to sound only oldest Pureblood households._

Not making sense. Need to read again.

Need to read on.

_There are those who respect the use of Marks in flavour of Branding. While Branding usually results in a less precise control due to the difficulty of imposing intent in a less precise control due to the difficulty of imposing intent through the pain, fire tends visceral fear that can be effective in Binding a recrant... re-cal-cit-rant..._

.

I blink.

_I can't see!_

I'm sitting at a desk, my head on my hands, my feet on the cold stone floor. And it's dark. I'm trapped. I'm-

_I'm in the potions room._

I push down my panic. If I look up, I can see the faint outlines of the windows, high up on the wall. It's night, that's all. I'm _not_ back down _there_.

I rub my eyes. How long have I been asleep?

_Too long._

And I didn't read nearly enough before that potion put me under. What if he comes back? I need to have something, or he'll...

Not helpful. I can't think about that.

So. First things first: the wand.

I feel across the top of the desk; something rolls and clatters to the floor. I push back the chair and kneel, reaching carefully into the darkness. If those mirrors dropped there'll be glass around too... but my fingers close around the wand.

Now all I need is light.

Light.

_...burning, burning, burning away the dark  
You will not do that again..._

But this time I have a wand. I can focus the magic. I won't let it consume me.

_...like a star about to explode..._

I shudder.

No. All I need to do is swish, like so, and-

I- I _can't._

I don't know whether it's my own fear or whatever _he_ did to this wand that's stopping me. But I do know I can't risk it. And without light, there's nothing I can do until morning.

I stand up and step towards the fireplace. I light the fire on the second attempt; at least I know that spell works. I feel for the box of Floo Powder and throw a glittering pinch into the fire.

"The White Room."

The fire glows green. I step into the flames.


End file.
